AIVGELE8 


The  Little  Mother 
Who,Sit;sAtHome 


Gdited  ByThe 


With  Colored  Trontispiece  by 

JMavy  La  JctraRu^ell 


Tleu;  \/ork 
C.  P  Dutton  &.  Company 


.    Or 


COPYRIGHT,  1915 

BY 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


•Clx  Itnickcrbocfecr  Qrttt,  "Hew 


EDITOR'S  PREFACE 

JT  is  only  fair  to  admit  that  the  task  of 
editing  this  little  book  has  been  some- 
thing of  a  sinecure.  Such  as  it  was,  it 
mainly  involved  the  omission  of  a  few 
passages  of  purely  private  interest  and  a 
certain  amount  of  repetition — the  empha- 
sized injunctions  of  a  loving  and  anxious 
mother.  The  little  contribution,  in  the 
way  of  foreword,  by  the  writer's  son,  gives 
all  the  reason  necessary  for  publication. 
Further  editorial  comment  would,  I  feel, 
be  redundant. 

HELEN E  BARCYNSKA. 


Hi 


2125690 


Foreword 

HPHESE  letters  were  written  by  my 
beloved  Mother  between  my  fifth 
and  twenty-fifth  birthdays.  As  they 
were  all  dated  I  am  able  to  arrange  the 
unposted  ones,  not  meant  for  my  youth- 
ful eyes,  in  chronological  order  with  those 
received  by  me  as  child,  boy,  and  man, 
though  many  of  the  latter,  I  regret  to 
say,  were  inadvertently  destroyed. 

I  make  no  apology  for  their  publica- 
tion. Their  anonymity  protects  the 
identity  of  the  writer,  which  is  all  she 
would  have  stipulated.  As  a  revelation 
of  affection  as  rare  as  it  is  pure  they  will 
hardly  fail  to  appeal  to  those  of  the 
reading  public  who  can  appreciate  the 
wonder  of  the  mother-love. 


vi  FOREWORD 

But  to  those  trained  beings  of  captious 
taste  whose  occupation  it  is  to  read  a 
book  in  cold  blood,  to  praise  or  blame 
in  cold  print,  I  would  respectfully  point 
out  that  they  criticise  not  the  living 
but  the  dead. 

HER  SON. 


Contents 

PAGE 

ON  SLEEPING  ALONE i 

ON  MARRYING  AGAIN  10 
ON  SACRIFICE  AND  EDUCATION      .        .        .17 

ON  THE  LAST  DAYS     .....  30 

ON  UTTER  SOLITUDE 38 

ON  WORK,  PLAY,  AND  DECENT  LANGUAGE     .  40 

ON  TAKING  THE  ROUGH  WITH  THE  SMOOTH    .  46 

ON  SYMPATHY  AND  MARTYRDOM   ...  50 

ON  COMING  HOME  FOR  THE  HOLIDAYS  .         .  52 

ON  A  PUBLIC  SCHOOL 56 

ON  A  VOICE 66 

ON  CERTAIN  SUBJECTS  THAT  PUZZLE  YOUTH  .  68 
ON  THE  JOYS  OF  WANDERING        .         .         -77 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  OLD  DOG    ...  82 

ON  A  DECLARATION  OF  FAITH       ...  86 

ON  GOING  WITHOUT 99 

ON  DREAMS 106 

ON  A  FIRST  TERM  AT  COLLEGE     .        .        .112 

ON  A  TWENTY-FIRST  BIRTHDAY     .        .         .  122 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGB 

ON  SENTENCE  OF  DEATH  .  .  .  .128 
ON  A  FIRST  EFFORT  IN  LITERATURE  .  .  140 

ON  SUCCESS 145 

ON  LONDON  AND  ITS  DANGERS      .        .         .151 

ON  A  DARK  HOUR 161 

ON  THE  DESIRE  FOR  DISTRACTION  .  .  163 
ON  AN  APPOINTMENT  TO  A  RESPONSIBLE  POST  164 
ON  THE  RENDING  OF  THE  VEIL  .  .  .171 

ON  A  PHOTOGRAPH 173 

ON  AN  ENGAGEMENT 174 

ON  A  DISAPPOINTMENT  .  .  .  .176 
ON  AN  INTERVIEW  .  .  .  182 

ON  THE  LAST  GIFT 189 

NUNC  DIMITTIS 193 


The  Little  Mother 

Who  Sits  at  Home 


The  Little    Mother    Who 
Sits    at   Home 

On  Sleeping  Alone 
(Unposted) 

DABY-MAN  dear: 
*— '  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will 
ever  see  this  letter.  I  can  foresee  no 
circumstances  in  which  I  could  show  it 
to  you,  certainly  not  until  you  are  a 
grown  man  and  have  slept  with  a  wife 
in  the  crook  of  your  arm.  All  the  same 
I  must  write  it  because  I  am  very  very 
lonely  tonight,  my  son,  although  you  are 
no  farther  away  from  me  than  the  next 
room  where  you  are  lying  fast  asleep. 

You  see,  it  is  the  first  night  you  have 
slept  alone.     My  own  big  bed  is  empty, 


2          THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

and  I  am  dreading  getting  into  it. 
That  is  why  I  am  sitting  up  so  late. 

Every  night  for  the  past  five  years  I 
have  undressed  by  the  glimmer  of  the 
night-light  and  crept  furtively  between 
the  sheets  so  as  not  to  disturb  my  pink- 
pyjamed  baby  lying  right  across  the 
bed.  Then  when  I've  made  quite  sure 
I  haven't  disturbed  you  I  have  edged 
my  hand  towards  you  and  taken  your 
chubby  little  fist  in  mine,  and  lain  listen- 
ing to  your  soft  and  even  breathing  for 
blissful  hour  upon  hour,  speculating 
the  while  about  your  future  until  I, 
too,  have  fallen  asleep  at  last. 

Sweetheart,  you  mean  so  very  extra 
much  to  me,  and  that  is  why  tonight  is 
such  a  specially  sad  night  for  me.  It 
marks  a  new  kind  of  loneliness.  I  have 
a  dear  little  boy  now,  but  not  a  baby. 

Son,  when  your  father  died  with  such 
dreadful  suddenness  you  were  just  four 
months  old.  You  did  not  fill  my  life 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME  3 

then.  I  was  wrapped  up  in  my  Beloved. 
I  only  thought  of  you  as  a  dear  little 
human  toy  we  were  rather  clever  to  have 
made.  That  first  night  in  the  desola- 
tion of  my  loss  I  actually  did  not  re- 
member I  had  a  baby.  I  had  lost  my 
husband.  I  think  my  heart  broke  and 
ever  since  I  seem  merely  to  have  held 
the  pieces  together  in  order  to  go  on 
living  for  your  sake.  For  me  there  was 
no  tender  God  to  touch  my  misery  with 
healing  hands.  My  God  had  died  too. 

Someone  insisted  on  my  going  to  bed 
at  last.  Someone  undressed  me  I  think 
and  brushed  my  hair  and  smoothed  my 
pillow.  But  when  the  door  was  shut 
on  me  I  sat  up,  suddenly  realizing  how 
awfully  funny  it  was  to  be  left  alone  in 
the  world.  And  I  laughed  and  laughed. 
I  heard  the  house  ringing  with  my 
laughter  and  it  made  me  laugh  the  more. 
Someone  came  into  the  room  again, 
carrying  a  little  bundle  in  her  arms.  The 


4  THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

cackle  died  in  my  throat.  Had  /  been 
laughing?  I  held  out  my  arms,  and  you 
were  put  into  them. 

I  sat  holding  you  for  hours. 

Then  I  knew  that  I  had  someone  to 
live  for,  after  all,  the  nearest,  dearest 
thing  next  to  your  father — your  father's 
own  child.  So  I  went  to  sleep,  holding 
you  to  me,  and  ever  since,  until  tonight 
...  So  you  understand,  or  you  will 
one  day,  why  I  am  lonely  now. 

I  shall  soon  get  used  to  it,  and  proba- 
bly sleep  much  better  because  I  have 
the  bed  to  myself.  There  is  always  a 
commonplace  side  to  these  things.  You 
are  a  greedy  little  person  asleep.  Cer- 
tainly you  monopolized  more  than  your 
fair  share  of  space.  On  cold  nights  I 
was  often  distinctly  chilly  because  you 
had  a  way  of  gradually  rolling  yourself 
into  a  ball  like  a  hedgehog,  with  all 
the  clothes  round  you.  Still,  I  didn't 
mind  being  cold.  You  made  up  for  it 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME  5 

in  the  mornings  when  you  snuggled  so 
close,  so  close. 

In  after  years  you  will  wonder  how 
our  separation  came  about.  Well,  it 
came  with  your  first  suit  made  by  a 
man-tailor.  Before  today  you  always 
wore  an  overall  and  little  short  knickers. 
Today,  you  have  discarded  overalls  and 
baby  garments  for  a  boy's  flannel  suit. 
That  made  you  realize  you  were  five  and 
getting  sixish.  You  had  been  surveying 
yourself  for  a  little  while  when  you  turned 
to  me  and  said  thoughtfully : 

"Mummy,  men  wear  trousers  like 
these,  don't  they?" 

"Yes,  darling." 

"Am  I  a  man?" 

"A  little  man." 

You  pondered  this.  "If  I'm  a  little 
man  can't  I  have  a  little  bedroom  all 
to  myself?" 

Then  I  guessed  the  time  had  come. 
But  I  had  to  make  sure  of  it.  Really, 


6  THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

you  axe  awfully  afraid  of  the  dark,  my 
son! 

"Little  men  who  sleep  alone  have  to 
do  without  night-lights.  They're  not 
afraid  of  the  dark,"  I  said. 

"I  don't  want  a  night-light.  If  I'm 
frightened  I  can  come  into  your  bed, 
can't  I?" 

I  didn't  argue  after  that,  dear.  I 
made  the  change.  My  dressing-room 
is  now  a  boy's  bedroom,  and  my  boy 
sleeps  there. 

Of  course  the  soft  motherly  part  of  me 
hoped  that  you  might  feel  the  least  little 
bit  afraid,  and  come  creeping  back  to  my 
arms.  But  you  are  so  proud  of  having 
a  room  to  yourself  that  the  dark  must 
have  lost  its  terrors.  You  went  to  bed 
at  seven.  I  heard  your  prayers,  tucked 
you  up,  and  kissed  you.  It's  past  twelve 
now.  You  must  have  been  asleep  a 
long  time.  I  must  have  a  peep  at  you. 
I  shall  take  this  in  with  me  and  go  on 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME  7 

writing.  I  haven't  the  nerve  to  go  to 
bed.  I  don't  want  to  cry  myself  to 
sleep. 

There !  the  candle  is  shaded  from  your 
eyes  and  I  shan't  disturb  you.  You  are 
all  rosy  in  your  sleep.  Your  hair  is 
rumpled  and  standing  up  on  end.  Oh! 
why  can't  I  keep  you  my  baby  always? 

Son  of  mine,  I  have  been  looking  at 
you  for  a  long  time,  hours,  I  think, 
learning  your  little,  little  face  by  heart. 
I  think  I  know  why  mothers  are  so 
tender  to  their  grown-up  sons.  In  the 
man  grown  they  see  the  baby  that  used 
to  be.  They  come  back — these  motherly 
memories — at  a  chance  touch  of  a  hand, 
a  look  in  the  eyes,  in  the  giving  of 
confidence.  You  need  us,  dear,  even 
when  you  are  men;  until  She  comes, 
she  who  is  to  mean  even  more  to  you 
than  the  mother  who  bore  you,  because 
she  is  to  be  the  mother  of  your  sons. 

Darling,  you  are  still  a  baby  in  spite 


8  THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

of  your  little  trousers  and  your  room 
to  yourself.  What  are  you  going  to  be 
in  the  years  to  come?  God  grant  you 
may  grow  like  your  father!  How  you 
have  worshipped  him,  baby !  How  often 
I  talk  of  him  to  you,  so  that  the  image  of 
him  in  your  mind  may  be  a  real  thing, 
and  grow  as  you  grow. 

What  are  you  going  to  be  later  on? 
What  am  I  going  to  be  to  you?  I'm  not 
so  old — twenty-five.  Am  I  old  enough, 
wise  enough,  to  stand  to  you  for  mother, 
father,  and  big  pal  ?  It's  easy  enough  to 
be  a  mother;  it's  easy  enough  to  be  a 
pal.  But  a  father? 

Oh,  my  husband,  if  you  were  only  here ! 

Baby-man  dear,  I  have  just  been  say- 
ing my  prayer  on  my  knees  by  your 
side.  I  have  said  it  every  night  of 
my  life  since  you  and  I  were  left,  and 
you  shall  know  what  it  is.  Were  you 
a  man  I  don't  think  you  would  smile 
at  it.  I  hope  not.  It  is  only  this : 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME  9 

"Kind  God  of  the  fatherless  and  the 
widowed,  bless  and  take  care  of  my 
little  son.  Give  him  a  happy,  healthy 
childhood  and  boyhood,  and  make  him 
grow  into  a  good  man.  Amen. " 

That's  all  I  ask,  darling,  but  it's 
everything. 

The  sky  is  growing  grey.  The  creepy 
shadows  that  take  bogey-shapes  have 
stolen  back  into  the  walls  until  night- 
time comes  again.  The  candle  has 
burnt  itself  out. 

Dawn!  I  must  go  back  to  my  own 
room.  In  an  hour  or  two  you'll  be 
awake  and  running  in: 

"How  did  you  sleep,  mummy?" 

"Beautifully,  darling!" 

You'll  forgive  me  for  a  fib  like  that  in 
years  and  years  to  come,  won't  you? 
I  shall  have  to  tell  you  heaps  of  them, 
you  know. 


On  Marrying  Again 
(Unposted) 

INSUBORDINATE  Child! 

I  have  had  to  pretend  severe  dis- 
pleasure and  send  you  to  bed  while  the 
birds  are  still  singing  and  the  bees  are 
yet  busy  in  the  garden. 

And  you  have  marched  off  like  a  man, 
with  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  very  bright 
eyes.  There  were  such  a  lot  of  things 
you  wanted  to  do.  I  hated  sending  you 
upstairs.  You  wanted  to  water  your 
garden,  and  of  course  it  will  never  occur 
to  you  that  I  have  done  it  for  you.  I 
couldn't  let  my  boy's  flowers  go  to  bed 
parched  with  thirst  just  because  he  went 
to  bed  naughty!  You  wanted  me  to 
bowl  to  you.  You  wanted  a  slice  of  the 
jam-tart  cook  made  this  morning  for 
10 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         n 

your  supper.  All  these  things  you 
have  had  to  forego.  If  you  cry  un- 
der the  bedclothes  I  shan't  know  it, 
unless  .  .  . 

I  have  been  eavesdropping  outside 
your  door.  You  are  neither  sobbing 
nor  asleep.  You  are  practising  in  a 
muted  key  on  the  flute  Captain  - 
gave  you.  And  Jane  has  just  come  out 
of  your  room  with  a  guilty  look  and  a 
plate.  It  is  quite  empty,  but  it  shows 
a  jammy  smear.  I  haven't  repriman- 
ded her.  I  wanted  you  to  have  that 
tart,  and  so  long  as  I  have  not  been 
weak  enough  to  give  it  to  you,  you 
may  still  have  a  wholesome  dread  of 
my  authority  when  it  has  to  be  exer- 
cised. So  a  fig  for  your  mother  and 
her  punishment.  You  don't  very  much 
care.  Oh,  Boy !  You  are  no  longer  my 
baby! 

Three  times  this  afternoon  I  had  to 
stop  you  from  speaking  to  the boys, 


12         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

and  not  only  speaking  but  inviting 
them  over  into  your  own  domain.  It 
isn't  because  they  are  common  and 
vulgar  that  I  object  to  them.  They  are 

undesirable  little  rips.  Captain  

told  me  so.  But  you,  when  I  had  to  be 
angry  with  you  for  disobeying,  answered 
me  back.  And  you  selected  a  stinging 
little  whip  of  words : 

"But  why  shouldn't  I?" 

"Because  they're  not  nice  boys  for 
you  to  know. " 

"How  do  you  know?  You're  only  a 
woman!" 

That  is  your  first  conscious  question- 
ing of  my  right  to  be  your  superior 
officer,  and  it  raises  a  very  vexed  ques- 
tion. Ought  I  to  marry  again?  For 
your  sake,  Son. 

You  see,  now,  while  I'm  still  rather 
nice  to  look  at,  I  have  the  chance. 
"He"  is  very  partial  to  you  and  thinks 
you  "  a  jolly  little  beggar,"  though  get- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          13 

ting  a  bit  out  of  hand,  and  that  you 
need  a  man  over  you. 

Did  you  voice  that  need  today?  I 
think  so. 

Now  let  me  put  it  all  down  in  black 
and  white:  it  helps  me  to  think. 

If  I  marry  this  particular  man  I  am 
assured  you  like  him  to  start  with.  He 
is  a  pal  of  yours.  On  the  other  hand, 
although  I  am  still  a  young  woman  I 
could  not  give  him  all  that  a  young 
woman  should  give  her  husband.  I 
cannot  heal  my  heart  as  so  many  women 
do  by  again  making  myself  the  property 
of  a  man.  I  was  your  father's.  I  am 
jealous  of  myself  because  of  that.  All 
the  living,  loving  part  of  me  that  brought 
you  into  being,  is  buried  with  him.  I 
guard  the  sacred,  passionate  memory 
of  our  last  embrace.  But  those  are  my 
personal  feelings.  I  must  put  you  first. 
You  are  his  child. 

If   I   marry,  your   future   would   be 


14         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

assured  without  any  pinching  or  con- 
triving on  my  part.  You  would  be  a 
rich  man's  step-son.  If  I  don't  marry, 
I  have  got  to  part  with  you,  to  put  you 
amongst  men,  little  men  of  your  own 
age,  and  big  men  to  control  you. 

Women  are  not  generally  successful 
in  training  boys  or  dogs.  We  can't  help 
pampering  the  pet,  with  the  result  that 
our  pet  is  a  pest  to  other  people. 

So  it  comes  to  this :  I  shrink  from  the 
thought  of  marriage,  and  I  can't  bear 
the  idea  of  sending  you  away.  How  am 
I  to  reconcile  these  opposite  inclinations? 

I  shall  have  to  ask  you. 

I  have  asked  you. 

I  put  it  in  the  most  delicate,  tentative, 
round-about  fashion ;  but  you  in  deepest 
innocence  went  plumb-bang  to  the  heart 
of  things. 

"Darling,"  I  said,  "which  would  you 
rather  do,  go  and  live  with  a  lot  of  little 
boys  in  a  school  and  learn  lessons  and 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          15 

play  games,  or  have  the  very  nicest  man 
you  know  to  come  and  live  with  you?" 

We  both  thought  of  the  same  person : 
the  name  was  unnecessary.  You  asked : 

"Would  he  be  with  us  all  day?" 

"All  day." 

"Jolly!     Where  would  he  sleep?" 

I  grew  hot  and  cold — and  dumb. 

"I  shouldn't  want  him  at  night, "  you 
said,  "would  you?  I'd  rather  be  with 
boys.  How  soon  can  I  go,  mum?" 

"I've  got  to  find  the  school  first, 
darling." 

Already  my  mind  is  full  of  prospec- 
tuses, and  matrons,  and  drains.  Will 
they  always  air  your  linen?  Will  they 
see  that  you  put  your  sweater  on  when 
you  come  in  hot  from  games?  Will  they 
care  very  much  whether  you  are  well  or 
ill?, 

No;  they  will  be  normally  consti- 
tuted, healthy-minded  people  in  charge 
of  a  lot  of  quite  ordinary  small  boys 


i6         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

wonderful  only  to  their  little  mothers 
who  sit  at  home.  They  will  take  just 
ordinary  sensible  care  of  you  because 
it  is  to  their  interest  to  do  so. 

It  is  therefore  quite  settled.  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  again. 

Oh,  dear,  dead  husband  of  mine, 
where  are  you?  How  can  I  live  with- 
out you  through  the  long  years  that 
stretch  away  before  me?  Sometimes 
my  spirit  faints.  Life  seems  so  long! 
Never  in  this  world  to  hear  your  voice 
again,  never  to  feel  the  touch  of  your 
hand! 

Now  I  must  write  for  those  pros- 
pectuses. 

Preparatory  for  Harrow  or  Winches- 
ter, I  think. 


On  Sacrifice  and  Education 

(Unposted) 

I\/l  Y  growing  Son: 

*  I    have    found   your    school.     I 

think  I  have  inspected  almost  every 
preparatory  school  in  the  country  before 
I  could  bring  myself  to  decide  definitely. 
But  when  I  came  upon  this  one  I  knew 
I  should  choose  it.  It  is  just  what  I 
have  had  in  my  mind,  and  never  thought 
to  find.  It  is  a  long,  low,  rambling  old- 
fashioned  country  house,  sensibly  mod- 
ernized (but  not  spoilt),  set  in  playing 
fields  that  surround  its  own  private 
gardens.  Inside,  darling,  it  is  just 
what  a  little  boy  who  leaves  home  for 
the  first  time  should  go  to.  Not  a 
barrack,  built  only  for  giving  lessons  in, 
but  a  home.  I  saw  the  play-rooms,  the 
17 


1 8         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

big  dormitories,  the  bedrooms.  They 
have  an  awfully  jolly  plan:  after  you've 
been  there  two  terms,  and  provided 
you've  behaved  well,  you're  promoted 
to  a  bedroom  which  you  share  with  one 
or  two  pals.  In  it  you  have  your  own 
private  belongings.  You  are  allowed 
a  reasonable  time  for  talking  after  going 
to  bed,  and  one  of  you  is  made  respon- 
sible for  keeping  order  and  the  putting 
out  of  the  light.  If  you  fail  in  either  of 
these  duties  you  get  a  bad  mark,  and 
seven  bad  marks  send  you  back  to  the 
dormitory!  I  think  it's  a  good  plan. 
It  teaches  you  to  be  trustworthy; 
and  it  also  means  that  the  new  boys 
have  the  dormitories  to  themselves. 
It  will  be  a  relief  to  me  to  think  that 
on  your  first  night  you  will  be  with 
your  own  sort,  lonely  little  boys  sepa- 
rated from  their  mothers  for  the  first 
time  and  longing  to  have  a  quiet  howl 
under  the  bedclothes.  When  your  sec- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          19 

ond  term  begins,  the  sense  of  loneliness 
will  be  forgotten.  You  will  all  be  in 
good  spirits,  interested  in  each  other's 
holiday  experiences,  but  ready  for  an- 
other three  months  of  work  and  play. 

Then,  think  of  it,  my  son!  there's  a 
clubroom !  It  has  proper  padded  leather 
chairs,  a  great  leather  sofa,  a  small 
billiard  table,  round  tables  for  games, 
and  a  table  devoted  to  papers.  On  it 
I  saw  daily  papers,  Punch,  The  Field, 
The  Badminton,  Country  Life,  The  United 
Service  Magazine.  In  this  room  you're 
supposed  to  observe  club  conventions, 
not  to  disturb  others,  to  keep  tolerably 
quiet,  to  behave  in  short  like  men. 
There  are  heaps  more  things  that  you'll 
love,  the  swimming  bath  (real  sea 
water)  racket  courts,  games'  room,  the 
theatre.  This  particular  school  seems 
to  me  to  cover  the  whole  territory  of  a 
boy's  desires  and  requirements  as  far 
as  a  school  can. 


20         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

The  headmaster  is  a  dear,  with  a 
deep  knowledge  of  boys.  He  doesn't 
regard  you  first  and  foremost  as  a  young 
animal  to  be  licked  into  shape.  You'll 
get  your  share  of  lickings,  I  daresay, 
but  he  recognizes  that  there  are  other 
ways  of  shaping  you.  He  has  a  nice 
wife,  too,  a  domesticated,  motherly 
woman.  They  have  no  children  of 
their  own,  and  I  rather  think  they  have 
got  to  regard  their  boys  as  their  own 
large  family. 

I  am  bubbling  with  joy  inside  at 
having  found  such  a  model  of  a  school 
for  you.  Selection  in  this  matter  is  so 
vital.  The  preparatory  school  should, 
I  think,  be  chosen  with  even  more  care 
than  the  public  school.  The  prepara- 
tory school  moulds  you.  The  public 
school  sets  that  mould;  and  the  sub- 
sequent university  career  is  what  the 
sculptor's  finishing  touches  are  to  the 
statue  he  has  been  at  work  on.  I  want 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          21 

you  to  have  the  pick  of  the  first  two,  so 
that  the  third  may  make  you  that  best 
of  all  beings,  an  English  gentleman. 
I  do  not  mean  that  you  could  not  be  a 
gentleman  without  educational  advan- 
tages. You  are,  thank  God,  a  gentleman 
by  birth,  and  even  if  you  were  not,  you 
could  easily  be  a  gentleman  by  nature. 
But  just  as  it  is  my  ambition  that  you 
should  have  the  benefit  of  the  three 
gradational  stages,  so  it  is  my  prayer 
that  you  may  profit  by  them  all.  I 
want  my  son  to  be  a  gentleman  by 
birth,  by  nature,  and  by  education. 
That  is  almost  perfection,  dearest. 

I  take  the  subject  of  your  education 
very  seriously.  Before  you  were  born, 
your  father  used  to  discuss  it  with  me, 
assuming  that  you  would  be  a  boy. 
There  must  have  been  a  purpose  in  that, 
since  I  was  to  be  robbed  of  him  so  soon. 
Your  father  was  a  literary  man,  a 
student.  His  name  is  known  only  to  the 


22         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

few.  All  his  life  he  was  handicapped  by 
the  disadvantage  of  not  being  a  univer- 
sity man.  He  told  me  that  if  ever  we 
had  a  son  he  would  stint  himself  to  the 
uttermost  to  give  him  that  advantage. 
He  showed  me  the  necessity  of  it. 

It  comes  to  this:  public-school  and 
university  men  belong  as  it  were  to  a 
select  clan.  Even  those  who  were  "  up  " 
in  different  years  are  united  by  the  bond 
of  common  associations.  If  you  are  a 
member  of  this  fraternity,  later  when 
you  enter  a  profession  you  find  your- 
self among  men  of  your  own  set  and 
your  own  mental  attitude,  if  not  of  your 
own  college.  You  have  friends  or  po- 
tential friends  all  around  you.  The 
earning  of  your  living  becomes  a  pleas- 
ant occupation,  not  a  hard  struggle  for 
existence,  as  the  lower  middle  classes 
know  it.  In  all  the  better  walks  of  life, 
the  man  with  the  university  training, 
and  especially  one  with  a  good  degree,  is 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          23 

given  preference.  Ways  are  opened  for 
him;  berths  await  him.  And  this  is  as 
it  should  be.  He  is  the  hall-marked 
article. 

There  are  plenty  of  men  who  succeed 
in  life  without  social  and  educational 
advantages.  But  though  they  pride 
themselves  on .  possessing  heroic  quali- 
ties— application,  hard  work,  economy, 
determination — the  truth  is  that  to 
attain  success  they  have  had  to  live 
unlovely  lives  and  follow  questionable 
courses.  They  may  have  sweated  them- 
selves; they  certainly  have  "sweated" 
others.  They  have  been  hard,  ignoble, 
often  dishonest  "without  the  law." 
Such  men  usually  scorn  the  varsity 
graduate;  often  enough  they  hate  a 
gentleman.  But  it  is  a  cheap  kind  of 
scorn,  and  the  hatred  is  really  envy. 
How  much  better  is  the  culture  of  the 
gentleman  who  keeps  his  hands  and  his 
honour  clean. 


24         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

But  it  is  going  to  cost  an  awful  lot  of 
money,  beloved,  and  I  haven't  got  your 
father  or  anyone  to  help  me.  You  are 
going  to  absorb  all  your  mother's  funds 
for  years  and  years  to  come.  You'll  be 
rich  at  school,  but  poor  in  the  holidays. 
We  can't  have  it  both  ways,  darling.  / 
don't  a  bit  mind  being  poor,  so  long  as 
you  are  never  ashamed  of  my  poverty. 
You  won't  when  you're  older.  But 
boys  can  be  such  dreadful  snobs! 

I  can't  explain  the  difficulty  to  you 
now.  At  your  age  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand the  want  of  money  any  more  than 
you  would  understand  this  letter,  were 
you  to  see  it.  Later  on,  if  I  am  not  here, 
if  I  have  to  go  before  I  am  able  to  finish 
what  I  have  begun,  these  stray  letters, 
which  I  write  from  time  to  time  to 
ease  my  loneliness  and  my  aching  heart, 
will  show  you  what  I  wanted  my  boy  to 
be,  and  perhaps  help  him  on  his  way. 

Once  upon  a  time  when  I  was  nine- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          25 

teen  and  first  married  I  tried  hard  to 
economize  in  my  housekeeping.  I  was 
very  young  and  silly  in  those  days.  I 
made  a  list  of  the  things  I  would  save  on, 
and  the  other  day  I  came  across  them 
pasted  in  an  old  diary  of  your  father's. 
Don't  laugh,  Son.  It  will  at  least  show 
you  that  your  mother  was  really  young 
once. 

1.  Three  courses  instead  of  five  for 

dinner. 

2.  Give  up  scent  and  ribbons  for 

threading  through. 

3.  Only  wear  silk  stockings  in  Lon- 

don. 

4.  Grow  vegetables  and  keep  fowls. 

5.  Ask  cook  to  show  me  how  things 

are    made   before    I    give   her 
notice  and  get  a  cheaper  one. 

6.  Buy  a  money-box  and  save  far- 

things from  the  drapers. 

7.  Get    Welsh    mutton    instead    of 

New  Zealand  lamb.     It  ought 


26         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

to  be  cheaper,  Wales  being 
miles  nearer  than  the  other 
place. 

8.  Ask  the  grocer  to  write  English  so 
that  I  can  dispute  the  items  in 
his  book. 

My  economies  will  have  to  be  very 
different  now:  no  play  about  them, 
darling.  First  and  foremost  I  shall 
have  to  leave  this  house  where  you  and 
your  father  before  you  were  born,  and 
go  into  a  little  semi-detached  villa. 
I  have  three  hundred  a  year  and  this 
house.  I  have  to  keep  two  gardeners, 
two  maid-servants,  and  a  little  boy. 
The  little  boy  is  now  going  to  swallow 
it  all.  The  fees  for  your  preparatory 
school  are  £150,  so  when  your  clothes 
have  been  bought — you  grow  so  fast, 
dear — that  will  leave  me  very  little 
more  than  a  hundred  for  myself.  I 
shall  manage  on  it,  you'll  see.  Perhaps 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          27 

I  shall  be  able  to  think  of  some  way  of 
making  a  bit  more  so  as  to  give  you  a 
nice  time  in  the  holidays. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  garden,  with  my 
writing  block  on  my  knee.  You  came 
up  just  now,  tired  for  the  moment  of 
digging  in  your  garden,  and  clambered 
on  my  lap.  You  placed  a  muddy 
finger- tip  between  my  eyebrows: 

"That's  the  little  line  that  comes 
when  you're  asleep  in  the  morning, 
mummy.  I've  smoothed  it  out  ever 
so  often,  but  it  comes  back  again 
most  immediately  soon.  Why  does  it 
come?" 

"Worry,  darling." 

"What  do  you  worry  for?" 

"I  was  thinking  about  money." 

"We've  got  lots  of  money — oceans!" 
you  protested  stoutly. 

Then  the  tide  is  out,  darling! 

You  sat  thinking.  Presently  you 
scampered  off  into  the  house .  You  came 


28         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

back  breathless  and  threw  something 
that  chinked  into  my  lap. 

"There  you  are,  mummy.  I  don't 
want  it!" 

Your  red  pillar-box  savings  bank! 

You  duck! 

My  eyes  went  blind  for  a  minute. 
When  I  had  suitably  thanked  you  and 
pretended  to  have  accepted  your  two 
hundred  pence,  you  went  back  to  your 
digging.  My  dim  eyes  stared  stupidly 
at  the  old  house  facing  me,  subcon- 
sciously making  an  inventory  of  home 
and  garden. 

Its  windows  are  like  eyes.  Through 
the  feathery  branches  of  the  cedar  on 
the  lawn  they  seem  to  give  me  gaze  for 
gaze  reproachfully.  It  is  as  though 
they  want  to  remind  me  of  what  we 
are  about  to  lose.  From  their  weather- 
beaten  stone  architraves  set  in  old  red 
brick  they  look  down  on  green  turf 
velvety  with  the  care  of  two  centuries, 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          29 

on  the  flagged  paths  and  the  clipped 
yews  and  the  wealth  of  bloom  that 
abounds  in  the  garden  on  this  summer 
afternoon.  They  look  down  on  the 
sturdy  little  fair-haired  boy  in  his  faded 
blue  garden  overall — Son  of  the  house! 
Dear  God.  It  hurts! 


On  the  Last  Days 

(Unposted) 

HPHESE  last  days,  Son!  How  they 
•*•  drag!  I  know  we  both  heartily 
wish  they  were  over.  We  try  to  fill 
them  with  exciting  doings,  and  our 
spirits  are  quite  hectically  high,  aren't 
they?  But  our  throats  hurt  and  our 
eyes  burn,  and  we  can't  bear  to  look  at 
one  another  for  very  long.  We're  hid- 
ing it  from  each  other  that  the  coming 
parting  is  going  to  be  an  awful  trial. 
It's  like  waiting  in  the  dentist's  room, 
knowing  and  fearing  the  coming  cruel 
wrench.  We  shall  be  better  when  it's 
over,  but  not  immediately.  The  wrench 
makes  the  void  ache  almost  as  much  as 
the  tooth  did.  But  the  gaping  place 
heals,  and  in  the  case  of  youth,  another 
30 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         31 

tooth  fills  the  void  before  long.  You 
would  understand  that  simile  out  of  your 
own  experience,  would  you  not? 

All  the  same,  in  spite  of  the  stomach- 
achy  feelings  in  our  hearts,  we've  had 
grand  times  these  last  few  days,  and 

Captain has  been  a  "ripping  good 

sort,"  hasn't  he?  He  got  up  all  the 
picnics,  and  motor-car  drives,  and  crick- 
et-matches for  your  sake,  Son. 

He  is  the  man  who  wants  to  look  after 
us  both,  and  although  we've  decided 
to  be  independent  and  look  after  our- 
selves it's  nice  to  know  we've  got  such 
a  staunch  friend  behind  us. 

So,  as  I've  been  on  the  jaunt  with 
you  all  day,  I've  had  to  do  the  greater 
part  of  your  packing  at  night.  That  is 
just  as  well.  You  haven't  seen  it  going 
on.  It's  done  now,  all  except  the  labels. 
In  your  playbox  are  your  favourite 
toys :  clock-work  trains,  signals,  soldiers, 
boats,  all  go  with  you,  my  son;  but 


32         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

poor  old  Teddy  Bear,  friend  of  child- 
hood, must  be  left  at  home.  Teddy 
Bear's  day  is  over.  Eight-year-old  boys 
can't  take  such  things  to  school.  Ten- 
and  eleven-year-old's  would  laugh  at 
you.  Besides,  you  elected  to  leave  him 
behind  yourself,  and  I  really  don't 
think  you  care  tuppence  ha'penny  about 
the  long-suffering  object.  The  whacks 
and  bangs  he's  had!  The  thumpings 
and  bumpings! 

Your  tuck-box  is  also  ready.  It 
ought  to  make  you  persona  grata  with 
the  other  boys,  for  it's  a  tuck-box  in  a 
thousand.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  the  goodies  inside  it,  so  it  will  be 
quite  exciting  for  you  to  unpack  it. 

And  all  your  clothes  are  folded  and 
packed — packed  so  lovingly,  my  darling, 
six  pairs  of  this,  six  pairs  of  that,  six 
of  these,  and  six  of  those.  And  salt 
tears  have  dropped  in  among  them. 
Lavender  would  have  done  better.  I 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          33 

wonder  if  the  servants  and  matrons  who 
unpack  the  boys'  boxes  have  the  imagi- 
nation to  guess  at  the  love,  the  kisses, 
and  the  tears  that  are  all  mixed  in  with 
the  little  shirts,  pants,  and  vests?  They're 
not  mothers,  poor  things,  so  perhaps 
they  haven't.  It  was  depressing  to 
think  that  everything  I  had  so  lovingly 
sorted  and  arranged  and  prayed  over 
will  be  unpacked  by  strangers  whose  sole 
interest  in  them  will  be  to  see  that  each 
article  is  marked  with  the  owner's  name 
in  full.  Strangers !  Strangers  in  future 
to  do  everything  for  my  son.  I  sup- 
pose every  mother  in  the  world  who  has 
to  send  her  son  to  school  for  the  first 
time  goes  through  what  I  am  suffering 
now. 

But  when  he  comes  back!  The  joy 
of  turning  out  the  dear,  worn  garments ! 
The  new  socks  will  be  all  darns — bumpy 
darns,  I'm  sure,  because  darning  is  a 
work  of  the  heart  as  much  as  the  hand; 


34         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

the  once  spotless  flannels  shrunk  and 
discoloured;  the  Norfolk  suits  gone  thin 
at  the  elbows  and  knees ;  the  shoes  worn 
down  at  heel — a  larger  size  next  term! 
And  yet,  Sonnie,  how  I  shall  revel  in  that 
unpacking!  I  shall  sing  over  it,  hymns 
of  praise  and  thanksgiving. 

But  alas !  it's  a  long  way  from  that  yet. 
You've  got  to  leave  me  first  before  I 
can  begin  to  anticipate  your  coming 
back. 

I  saw  you  looking  at  me  very  often 
and  very  hard  today  to  see  whether  I 
was  near  to  tears.  But  these  are  the 
days  when  I  have  to  be  your  backer  and 
bottle-holder  and  chief  of  the  staff  all 
in  one  as  well  as  your  mother,  and  I'm 
keeping  a  stiff  upper  lip.  I  knew  that 
a  tremble  in  my  voice,  a  tear  in  my  eye, 
would  bring  you  sobbing  into  my  arms, 
just  a  very  litle  boy  afraid  of  facing  the 
world,  of  being  sent  away  from  his 
mother.  The  cutting  of  the  apron- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          35 

string  is  a  very  painful  process.  Like 
the  puppy  dog's  tail  it's  best  done  in  the 
very  early  days  when  these  small  opera- 
tions don't  hurt  so  much.  A  whole  tail 
quite  spoils  the  look  of  a  decent  dog, 
even  though  some  misguided  people 
allow  it  to  remain  out  of  a  sense  of 
humanity.  It's  the  same  with  the  apron- 
string.  It  has  to  be  cut  if  the  boy  is  to 
grow  out  of  puppyhood. 

So  we've  kept  our  hearts  hardened,  and 
we've  had  no  "scenes — "  stoics,  both 
of  us,  learning  one  of  life's  hard  lessons. 

All  the  same,  I  nearly  broke  down 
when  you  were  saying  your  prayers. 
You  thought  I  didn't  notice  it,  my 
precious,  but  you  were  a  long  time 
getting  up,  and  I  knew  you  were  kissing 
the  folds  of  my  skirt.  It  made  my 
heart  come  into  my  throat.  Oh,  how 
I  wanted  to  hug  you! 

But  I  didn't.  I  tucked  you  up  and 
left  you  with  a  sensible,  not  too-linger- 


36         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

ing  kiss.  I  dared  not  stay.  Long  after 
you  thought  I  had  gone  downstairs 
I  heard  you  sobbing,  fighting  with  your 
sobs,  horrid  breathy  sobs — a  small  man 
in  trouble. 

Your  boy's  busy  day  had  come  to  an 
end,  and  you  realized  in  a  rush  that  this 
was  your  very  last  night  at  home,  and 
that  tomorrow  night.  .  .  ! 

I  had  to  fight  hard  not  to  come  in  and 
howl  with  you.  But  that  isn't  the  way 
to  help  you.  If  your  dear  father  had 
been  alive  I  might  have  let  my  mother- 
feelings  go,  but  I've  got  to  practice 
some  of  the  manly  virtues  now. 

Keep  up,  keep  up !    I  am  sobbing ! 

Very  late. 

I  have  been  in  to  kiss  you.  You  are 
fast  asleep.  And  you've  taken  Teddy 
to  bed  with  you.  His  head  is  all  sodden 
—soaked  with  tears,  and  oh!  in  my 
anxiety  to  do  the  right  thing,  I  keep 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          37 

asking  myself  whether  I  am  sending  you 
away  too  soon. 

You  haven't  slept  with  Teddy  for  a 
year. 

Why — tonight  ? 


On  Utter  Solitude 

(Unposted) 

IT  is  all  over.  You  have  gone.  The 
*  train  has  swept  you  and  a  lot  of 
other  boys  out  of  the  station,  out  of  my 
sight.  We  made  our  last  good-byes 
quickly  and  in  public.  More  stoicism. 
Without  it  we  should  both  have  broken 
down. 

I  turned  my  back  and  pulled  down  my 
veil.  It  was  a  long,  long  platform  to 
traverse  before  I  could  gain  the  shelter 
of  the  ladies'  waiting-room.  It  seemed 
nearly  as  long  as  life.  I  thought  I 
should  never  get  to  the  end  of  it.  I 
could  not  see.  And  one  sob  that  was 
meant  to  be  a  silent  one  came  out  with 
a  sudden  breaking  noise.  Just  at  the 
last  I  could  have  sworn  I  heard  your 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         39 

voice  cry  "Mother!"  I  nearly  turned 
and  raced  back,  but  I  kept  right 
on. 

Son,  I  am  utterly  alone! 


On  Work,  Play,  and  Decent  Language 

(Posted) 


VEAREST 


I'm  writing  to  you  at  once  as 
I  promised  ;  but  I  shall  have  to  wait  for 
your  letter  until  Saturday.  I  am  sure 
you  will  have  a  tremendous  lot  to  tell 
me;  and  remember  I  want  to  know 
everything.  Don't  leave  anything  out. 
Tell  me  your  whole  day's  doings,  what 
you  think  of  your  school,  how  you  like 
lessons  and  games,  of  the  friends  you 
have  made  and  who  they  are. 

I  hope  you  had  a  jolly  journey  down. 
I'm  sure  you  didn't  fret.  It's  so  babyish. 

I  haven't  any  news  to  tell  you.     I  am 

just  by  myself  and  nothing  is  happening. 

If  I  were  not  your  mother  I  should  wish 

to  be  your  elder  brother  and  at  school 

40 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         41 

with  you.  I  think  boys  are  such  lucky 
creatures.  Girls  don't  have  half  such 
a  good  time  at  school  as  boys. 

It  is  a  good  time  in  spite -of  lessons, 
even  because  of  them.  I  wonder  if  I 
can  make  you  see  that.  Really,  learning 
things  is  interesting,  if  you  don't  think 
of  it  as  a  task.  Everybody  in  the  world 
is  learning  things  all  the  time.  Grown- 
ups, I  mean.  And  they  are  glad  to 
learn.  You  have  no  idea  how  much 
every  new  thing  you  learn  makes  you 
feel  more  sure  of  yourself,  gives  you 
some  advantage  over  the  person  who 
hasn't  learnt  it.  Don't  think  it  a  task. 
It  may  seem  so  at  first.  Boys  look  at 
it  like  that,  I  know,  but  that's  because 
the  reason  for  lessons  hasn't  been  pro- 
perly explained  to  them. 

Listen,  think.  Ask  WHY  about  every- 
thing you  don't  understand.  Keep  on 
asking  WHY.  Good  masters  don't  mind 
questions :  they  take  much  more  interest 


42         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

in  the  boy  who  asks  them.  It  is  the 
boy  who  doesn't  ask  because  he's 
inattentive  or  stupid  or  doesn't  care 
that  the  master  doesn't  like.  You  are 
not  stupid,  and  I'm  sure  you  care, 
so  be  sure  you  are  not  inattentive. 
Then  everything  will  go  smoothly  for 
you.  There's  another  thing  about  at- 
tention. It  makes  the  time  pass  quicker. 
It  makes  the  next  lesson  easier,  too, 
so  that  in  the  end  lessons  don't  seem 
either  long  or  hard. 

All  the  masters  at  your  school  are 
good  men,  university  men,  gentlemen. 
Remember  that  too.  Boys  think  mas- 
ters are  machines  paid  to  stuff  them  with 
bothersome  things.  That's  quite  a  mis- 
take. Really,  it's  harder  work  for  them 
to  teach  than  for  boys  to  learn.  That 
is  why  you  must  show  respect  for  them 
by  doing  your  best.  To  be  inattentive 
is  rude  as  well  as  waste  of  your  own 
time. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          43 

That's  enough  about  work:  now  for 
play.  Put  your  heart  into  your  games — 
cricket,  football,  rackets.  Never  mind 
if  you  get  hurt.  You  are  bound  to  be 
sometimes.  Games  at  which  you  can't 
get  hurt  aren't  worth  playing.  Directly 
you  play  them  decently  you  won't 
notice  the  knocks.  I  want,  above 
everything,  to  see  you  a  ''blue"  some 
day. 

Be  modest.  Don't  think  yourself  a 
better  man  than  the  other  fellows. 
Don't  put  on  "swank"  if  you  happen 
to  be  at  the  top  of  your  form,  or  hold  a 
hot  return  at  cricket.  Think  how  much 
more  frequently  you'll  have  cause  to 
sing  small  because  you're  nearer  the 
bottom,  or  the  shot  at  goal  has  missed! 
Be  chummy  with  as  many  boys  as  you 
can.  If  there  are  any  who  make  you 
feel  like  old  Kibob  when  his  heckles  go 
up,  don't  spoil  for  a  fight  as  he  does. 
Still,  if  you  ever  have  to  fight — fight. 


44         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

Win  if  you  can,  but,  if  you  can't,  take 
a  licking  like  a  gentleman  and  don't 
bear  malice. 

By  the  way,  some  boys  are  apt  to  use 
very  queer  words.  I  should  stick  to 
decent  language  if  I  were  you.  Swear- 
ing isn't  a  bit  manly,  really.  Besides,  if 
you  get  into  the  habit  of  it,  you  might 
do  it  in  my  hearing.  It's  an  appalling 
thing  to  use  bad  language  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  lady.  I  don't  think  you  will 

come  across  much  bad  language  at , 

thank  Goodness! 

If  at  any  time  there's  anything  you 
don't  understand,  or  are  puzzled  about, 
ask  me.  If  there's  anything  wrong, 
tell  me.  There's  no  sense  in  bottling 
it  up.  It  might  be  something  I  ought 
to  know.  That  isn't  sneaking.  It 
would  be  sneaking  if  I  were  one  of  the 
masters  and  you  were  to  tell  me  some- 
thing that  would  get  another  boy  into 
trouble;  but  I'm  your  mother,  not 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          45 

a  master,  so  you   can   tell  me  every- 
thing. 

There's  a  long  lecture,  my  son!  I 
shan't  repeat  it,  but  don't  forget  it,  all 
the  same. 

I  shall  have  lots  more  to  tell  you  next 
time  I  write,  I  expect.  Don't  worry 
about  me,  darling.  I  haven't  time  to 
miss  you.  There's  such  a  lot  to  do, 
getting  ready  to  leave  this  house,  letting 
it,  and  so  on. 

Good-bye  till  next  week.  Write  me 
a  long,  long  letter.  Never  mind  about 
the  spelling. 

Your  loving 

MOTHER. 

P.  S. — Captain has  just  brought 

in  these  stamps  for  you.      He  says  the 
surcharged  Natal  ones  are  worth  having. 

Don't  forget  to  put  your  sweater  on 
when  you're  hot  after  a  game.  That's 
not  coddling.  It's  sense. 


On  Taking  the  Rough  with  the  Smooth 
(Posted) 

VEAREST  —  : 


I  was  awfully  disappointed  to  get 
your  letter.  I  can't  possibly  write  to 
Mr.  J  -  and  ask  him  to  let  you  off 
your  swimming  lessons.  I  can't  say 
you're  not  strong  and  that  accordingly 
it's  bad  for  you,  because  you're  quite 
strong  and  it's  good  for  you.  You  must 
learn  to  swim  and  to  like  it.  It's  silly 
to  think  you're  drowning  because  you're 
thrown  in  and  a  lot  of  water  gets  in 
your  mouth.  Is  it  likely  they  would  let 
a  boy  drown?  If  the  man  is  a  little 
rough  teaching  you,  you  must  grin  and 
bear  it.  Spit  out  the  water  and  strike 
out.  You  can't  expect  to  be  taught 
gently  as  if  you  were  a  girl.  They  have 
46 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         47 

to  be  put  into  hike-warm  water  and 
made  to  flop  about  on  silly  ladder  things. 
You'd  be  sorry  to  be  a  girl! 

I  know  you'll  think  I'm  an  unsym- 
pathetic creature,  but,  believe  me,  you 
need  not  be  afraid.  Everybody  who 
learns  to  swim  has  the  same  feelings 
about  it  as  you  have.  They  don't 
last.  If  you  think  for  a  moment  you 
will  see  that  the  fear  of  being  about  to 
sink  is  really  what  stimulates  you  to 
try  and  swim.  I  won't  believe  you  are 
a  water-funk  or  indeed  a  funk  of  any 
kind.  From  what  you  say  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  you  kept  your  feelings  to  your- 
self, and  having  been  man  enough  to  do 
that  it  won't  take  you  long  to  get  over 
them. 

So,  buck  up,  darling.  It's  all  in  the 
day's  work,  and  we've  got  to  take  the 
rough  with  the  smooth. 

When  you  were  a  little  boy,  about 
four,  you  were  a  dreadfully  impatient 


48         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

little  person.  You  wanted  everything 
at  once.  You  didn't  understand  what 
patience  means.  One  day  I  tried  to 
explain  it  to  you.  I  told  you  that 
whenever  you  felt  impatient  or  in  a 
particular  hurry  to  do  or  get  something 
over  you  were  to  say  to  yourself,  "Pa- 
tience, patience!"  You  pronounced  it 
"Paishon. "  Well,  one  day  we  were  in 
a  big  field  and  saw  a  bull.  We  couldn't 
turn  tail.  We  had  come  too  far.  You 
wanted  to  run.  I  told  you  you  mustn't, 
that  you  must  walk  slowly  as  if  nothing 
were  the  matter,  and  then  the  bull 
wouldn't  take  any  notice  of  us.  You 
got  fearfully  red  in  the  face,  and  gripped 
tight  hold  of  my  hand ;  and  all  the  time 
you  kept  muttering  to  yourself  right 
across  the  field:  ''Paishon!  Paishon  f 
Paishon!'1 

You  learnt  the  meaning  of  it  that  day. 

When  you're  swimming  and  feel  that 
you  are  sinking  just  remember  the  bull 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          49 

in  the  field,  and  say  "  Paishon !  Paishon ! 
Paishon!"  until  you've  got  to  the  other 
side  of  the  bath. 

You  can't  drown,  Son.  Do  you  think 
7  would  let  you?  Why,  I  would  be 
writing  to  your  Head  every  minute  of 
the  day  if  I  thought  there  was  the  faint- 
est danger  of  it.  As  it  is,  I'm  not  writing 
to  him  at  all. 

Your  loving 

MOTHER. 


On  Sympathy  and  Martyrdom 

(Unposted) 

JV /I  Y  beloved  little  Son: 
*  *  *  I've  just  had  to  write  you  a 
brute  of  a  letter.  It  did  hurt  to  do  it.  I 
don't  know  how  I  got  to  the  letter-box 
with  it  or  hardened  my  heart  sufficiently 
to  drop  it  in.  In  time  I  shall  grow  into 
a  flint  of  a  woman. 

I  know  you  funk  it,  darling,  and  I 
funk  it,  too.  I  hate  the  idea  of  your 
shivering,  shaking,  and  spluttering  in 
a  nasty  cold  tank.  And  Autumn's  a 
cruel  time  to  begin.  I  would  have  given 
anything  to  have  written  to  your  Head- 
master begging  you  off  on  the  plea  of  a 
delicate  chest.  And  you'll  never  know 
the  miserable  struggle  I  had  to  restrain 
myself  from  doing  so. 
so 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         51 

Personally,  I  hate  cold  water.  I 
can't  understand  anyone  enjoying  it; 
but  for  all  that,  until  I  hear  that  you 
enjoy  your  swim,  I'm  going  to  take  a 
cold  plunge  every  morning,  too.  If 
I  were  a  middle-aged  woman,  I  shouldn't 
do  such  an  idiotic  thing,  but  as  I'm 
young  and  it  can't  do  me  any  harm  I 
can  make  myself  uncomfortable  and 
cold  out  of  sympathy  with  you.  But 
all  the  same  I  shan't  let  my  son  know 
what  a  little  fool  his  "sensible"  mother 
is! 


On  Owning  Home  for  the  Holidays 

(Unposted) 

OWEETHEART!  I  am  a  girl  today. 
^  I  am  all  youth  and  bright  eyes  and 
blushes.  Surely  I  cannot  be  a  grown- 
up mother-woman  who  is  expecting  her 
son  home  for  his  holidays! 

Home  for  the  holidays!  Hip,  hip, 
hurrah ! 

Oh,  my  dear,  we  have  all  been  so  busy 
getting  ready  for  the  master  of  our 
house.  Cookie  (she's  the  only  servant 
I've  got  now)  has  been  roasting  herself 
alive  in  the  kitchen.  The  good  things 
and  the  cakes  she  has  made! 

Your  bedroom  is  ready:  the  bed 
made.  You  will  lie  in  it  tonight.  My 
son — under  his  own  roof -tree! 

His  own  roof- tree!  Hardly  that. 
52 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         53 

You're  coming  back  to  a  semi-detached 
villa,  darling. 

But  there's  a  big,  bursting  heart 
waiting  for  you ! 

I'm  so  afraid  you'll  be  different.  I 
hope  you  haven't  grown  out  of  all  the 
dear  baby  ways  that  I  love  so.  I  can't 
write.  I'm  shaking  with  excitement. 
I'm  just  sitting  at  my  bureau  scribbling 
one  of  my  many  unposted  letters  to 
you,  just  to  make  the  minutes  go  until 
it  is  time  to  meet  your  train. 

Will  you  look  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a 
critical  little  boy  who  sees  his  mother 
for  the  first  time  as  other  people  see 
her? 

Am  I  pretty?  I  do  hope  you'll 
think  me  pretty.  Schoolboys  love  their 
mothers  to  be  pretty. 

I've  been  quite  a  long  time  over  my 
toilette  this  morning.  I've  put  on  a 
short  skirt  so  that  I  can  run  to  meet  you 
when  I  see  you  on  the  platform,  and  I'm 


54         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

in  the  colour  your  father  loved  best — 
grey  with  a  touch  of  rose. 

"Hulloa,  old  girl,  what  have  you 
got  on  that  dress  for?  You  look  very 
festive. " 

I  put  up  my  face,  and  draw  his  down. 
We  rub  cheeks  affectionately. 

"Don't  you  know  what  today  is, 
husband?" 

"Dash  it  all,  anniversary  of  our 
wedding,  isn't  it?  We  seem  to  have 
about  five  a  year.  We  haven't  been 
married  one  yet,  sweetheart,  have 
we?" 

"Fie,  for  shame!  Do  you  forget  we 
have  an  eight-year-old  son?" 

"Why,  so  we  have.  The  little  chap's 
coming  home  today.  You  didn't  think 
I'd  forgotten,  Kid?  That's  why  I  put 
a  flower  in  my  buttonhole. " 

I  suddenly  reach  out  and  hold  your 
hand  tight,  my  husband,  and  your  voice 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          55 

goes   on,   lips   murmuring   against   my 
face. 

"Think  of  it,  Kid!  It  doesn't  seem 
nine  years  since  we  first  promised  not 
to  get  tired  of  each  other.  What  an 
unnecessary  promise,  and  how  easy  to 
keep!  Jolly  to  think  we've  got  the 
rest  of  our  lives  together,  and  the  boy 
growing  up  like  a  young  tree  of  our  own 
planting.  Life  won't  be  long  enough 
for  us.  Isn't  it  time  to  meet  his  train? " 

Son,  I've  been  dreaming! 
"The  rest  of  our  lives  together. " 
It  is  time  for  me  to  meet  your  train — 
alone. 

"Grey  with  a  touch  of  rose!" 


On  a  Public  School 
(Posted) 


BAREST 


I  am  a  wee  bit  disappointed  that 
the  public  school  I  had  in  mind  for  you 
has  no  vacancy  for  a  long  time  to  come. 
You  are  entered  for  -  . 

The  T  -  s  have  a  house  there,  so  I 
spent  last  week  with  them  and  went 
over  the  college.  Of  course  it  is  his- 
torical and  backed  by  fine  traditions. 
It  has  turned  out  great  men.  But  I 
must  own  that  I  was  not  very  favourably 
impressed  by  the  boys  I  saw  wander- 
ing about  the  narrow  streets.  I  don't 
like  their  slouch.  I  hope  you  won't 
acquire  it.  Most  of  them  walked  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  their 
hats  over  their  eyes.  The  wearing  of 
56 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         57 

the  elastic  behind  gives  the  back  of  their 
heads  an  odd  prominence.  Some  of 
them  looked  self-sufficient  young  crea- 
tures !  I  studied  them  at  close  quarters 
for  the  best  part  of  the  week,  comparing 
them  with  other  public  school  boys  I 
have  met,  and  I  know  exactly  what's  the 
matter  with  them,  and  why. 

You  hardly  ever  see  a boy  in  a 

hurry.  He  saunters.  He  walks  up  the 
hill  wearily.  His  complexion  is  muddy. 
He  has  a  lack-lustre  expression,  and  he 
looks  as  if  he  takes  no  interest  in  any- 
thing. 

The boy  seems  chronically  bilious. 

If  I  were  Headmaster  I  should  give 
every  one  of  them  a  blue  pill  and  a  black 
draught,  shut  up  all  but  one  of  the 
dozen  tuck-shops  in  the  place,  and  keep 
that  one  under  my  own  supervision. 

Boys  swarm  like  bees  in  these  tuck- 
shops.  They  saunter  from  one  to  the 
other.  I  have  seen  the  same  boys  visit 


58         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

three  in  one  morning.  I  was  lunching 
in  one  of  them.  It  was  just  after  the 
school  dinner-hour.  A  small  boy  came 
in,  inspected  the  counter  with  greedy 
eyes,  gave  an  order,  and  sat  down  at  one 
of  the  tables.  He  ate  and  ate.  This  is 
what  he  had : 

Two  eclairs, 

Lemonade, 

A  cream  horn, 

A  bath  bun, 

Another  bath  bun, 

Gingerbeer, 

Two  sticks  of  horrible  looking  rock, 

One  slice  of  cake, 

Two  bananas. 

Then  he  got  up  slowly,  paid  listlessly, 
and  slouched  out,  probably  to  the  next 
shop  up  the  street.  He  didn't  look  a 
bit  ashamed  of  himself,  only  sick. 

Apparently  the  boys  are  not  restricted 
as  to  what  they  may  or  may  not  eat, 
either  in  quality  or  quantity.  All  that 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          59 

seems  required  of  them  is  that  they 
shall  pay  for  it.  I  don't  like  it  a  lit- 
tle bit,  and  I  hope  you'll  have  sense 
enough  not  to  follow  the  gluttonous 

habit.  The boy  seems  to  think 

that  life  is  one  vast  tuck-shop.  I  dare 
say  many  of  the  house-masters'  wives 
get  worried  when  they  find  some  of 
their  charges  off  their  feed,  and  wonder 
why. 

I  am  fairly  sure  that  the  confectioners 
there  do  not  sell  particularly  good 
things.  But  they  make  the  boys  pay 
enough  for  them.  The  wily  creatures 
know  that  boys  are  not  critical,  and 
they  trade  on  it. 

You  will  ruin  your  digestion  if  you 

go  in  for  tuck  on  the fashion.  I 

suppose  it's  no  good  hoping  that  the 
system  will  be  altered  just  because  of  the 
whim  of  one  scandalized  mother. 

Now  that  I've  pointed  out  what  you 
ought  to  avoid  I  shall  be  most  miserable 


60         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

if,  when  you've  been  there  a  little  while, 
I  get  a  letter  from  you  like  this : 

"My  dear  Mother, — Please  do  send 
me  some  more  pocket-money.  Mine's 
all  gone,  though  I  don't  know  how. 
Yesterday  in  chapel  I  felt  very  ill. 
Everything  went  a  sort  of  green  colour, 
and  I  had  to  go  out. " 

You  won't  get  any  sympathy  from 
me! 

The  sock-and-tie  shops  seem  to  run 
the  confectioners  fairly  close.  I  saw 
lots  of  big  fellows  stopping  to  stare  in 
at  the  dandified  things  in  the  windows. 
Well,  socks  and  ties  are  comparatively 
harmless.  Indulgence  in  them  won't 
ruin  your  constitution. 

It  also  struck  me  that  the boys 

are  dreadfully  slovenly  in  their  dress.  I 
like  to  see  boys  and  men  shining  at  both 

ends — hair  and  shoes.  The boy's 

hair  is  nearly  always  ruffled  (owing  to 
the  elastic),  and  his  shoes  never  look 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          61 

properly  cleaned.  Still,  that's  not  his 
fault. 

The  fewness  of  bathrooms  is  another 
thing  that  I  didn't  like.  Altogether 
my  spirits  got  quite  damped. 

But  they  rose  again  quickly  (like 
the  tuft  of  hair  on  top  of  your  head  that 
won't  sit  down)  after  I  had  watched  a 
cricket  match.  Cricket  is  a  clean  and  a 
great  game,  and  the  way  boys  play  it 
tells  a  careful  observer  the  tone  of  their 
school.  As  long  as  there's  good  cricket, 
the  school's  all  right.  Your  father  said 
so,  and  he  knew. 

I  shall  be  all  impatience  until  you  get 
a  study  of  your  own.  There's  a  furnish- 
ing shop  where  you  can  choose  the  most 
splendiferous  of  arm-chairs,  the  gayest 
of  cushions,  the  brightest  of  rugs. 
When  I  went  in  to  buy  some  trifle  I 
could  not  help  watching  and  listening 
to  a  study-owner  who  was  there  with 
his  mother  and  two  grown-up  pretty 


62         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

girl  sisters.  He  was  a  self-possessed 
young  lord  of  creation,  about  thirteen, 
and  they  were  all  tremendously  anxious 
to  help  him  with  their  advice  in  the 
choice  of  a  chair.  He  cavilled  at  the 
patterns,  the  shapes,  the  sizes.  He  sat 
in  one,  he  sat  in  another.  He  made  his 
mother  and  his  sisters  sit,  and  finally 
he  chose  a  nobbley-looking  one  that 
bulged  in  all  the  places  it  shouldn't, 
because  as  he  explained,  "the  red  stuff 
will  go  so  well  with  my  yellow  curtains. " 

"I'm  decorating  my  study  in  the 
Morris  style,"  he  went  on.  "Lots  of 
the  fellows  are  this  term.  It's  not  too 
easy,  mater,  to  get  a  Morris  effect  on  a 
fiver!" 

The  mother  and  sisters  smiled  admir- 
ingly and  chorussed  "How  nice  I" 

I  went  to  a  service  in  chapel  on  Sun- 
day. In  the  choir  I  spotted  the  boy  who 
had  been  eating  so  outrageously,  and 
whose  menu  I  have  given  you.  He 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          63 

looked  white-faced  and  angelic.  The 
sun  shining  through  one  of  the  stained- 
glass  windows  gave  him  a  beautiful  ap- 
pearance. He  sang  a  solo  in  a  soaring, 
soulless  alto.  If  I  had  been  his  mother, 
his  beautiful  voice  and  his  look  of 
fragility  would  have  brought  tears  to 
my  eyes.  As  it  was  I  could  only  think 
of  him  as  a  sort  of  confectioner's  dustbin. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  something  about 
a  school  service  that  touches  one  very 
deeply.  As  I  sat  among  this  congrega- 
tion of  boys  in  this  world-famed  school 
for  the  sons  of  gentlemen,  boys  of  all 
ages,  sizes,  and  of  various  nationality, 
I  could  not  help  speculating  about  their 
future,  on  the  sort  of  men  they  would 
become,  on  all  that  life  might  or  might 
not  give  them.  Some  will  be  powers  in 
the  land — a  few  hold  high  office;  some 
will  achieve  greatness,  some  by  virtue 
of  birth  and  tradition  are  already  great; 
some  will  illumine  the  world  of  litera- 


64         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

ture,  science,  art;  some  will  explore 
the  dark  places  of  the  earth;  some  will 
be  the  nation's  defenders.  Out  of  every 
hundred  how  many?  And  the  rest, 
what  of  them?  The  majority  will  dis- 
appear and  be  heard  of  no  more.  A 
residue — a  small  one,  thank  God — will 
come  to  grief,  all  the  more  disastrous 
because  of  the  height  from  which  they 
fall. 

Boys  in  the  crucible  of  life! 

Thinking  these  thoughts  when  I 
knelt  in  the  very  chapel  where  you  will 
kneel,  darling,  my  whole  heart  went 
out  to  God  in  prayer  for  you. 

And  the  Benediction  echoed  that 
prayer  aloud  for  every  mother's  son: 

"The  peace  of  God,  which  passeth 
all  understanding,  keep  your  hearts  and 
minds  in  the  knowledge  and  love  of  God, 
and  of  His  Son  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord; 
and  the  blessing  of  God  Almighty,  the 
Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost, 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          65 

be  amongst  you  and  remain  with  you 
always. " 

"Always!"    Amen. 

Son,  be  good!  It  would  break  my 
heart  if  you  were  not. 

5 


On  a  Voice 

(Unposted) 

nPODAY  I  heard  a  man's  voice  in  the 
*  kitchen. 

"A  great  big  plum  cake,  cook.  And 
don't  be  mean  with  the  currants." 

For  a  minute  I  could  not  think  who 
it  could  be.  Had  cook,  at  forty,  a 
confirmed  spinster,  succumbed  to  the 
fascinations  of  "a  young  man?"  It 
couldn't  be  you.  Your  voice  was  all 
cracks  and  squeaks  at  breakfast. 

It  came  again,  very  distinctly. 

"You're  a  dear  old  thing!  I'll  have 
a  slice  now.  Buck  up!" 

My  heart  beat  violently.  A  rush  of 
tears  came  into  my  eyes,  for  I  heard  the 
voice  of  your  father  across  the  gulf  of 
fifteen  years. 

66 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         67 

I  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  went  in. 

As  I  might  have  expected,  I  saw  a 
rather  lanky  boy  perched  on  the  kitchen 
table,  swinging  his  legs,  a  huge  slab  of 
cake  in  his  hand. 

And  then  cook,  in  the  tone  of  one 
announcing  a  visitor: 

"Master  's  new  voice  is  come, 

ma'am." 

"Y-es,  cook." 

"And,  begging  your  pardon,  ma'am, 
isn't  it  like  the  dear  master's?" 

I  nodded,  eyes  blind. 

"Have  a  slice,  mother?"  came  my 
husband's  voice,  from  the  lips  of  my 
schoolboy  son. 


On  Certain  Subjects  that  Puzzle  Youth 

(Posted) 

PVEAREST — : 

•*— '  How  time  flies!  It  seems  only 
the  other  day,  or  a  month  or  two  at 
most,  that  you  were  a  dear  little  fat 
creature  in  tunic  and  short  trousers.  I 
have  to  think  quite  hard  to  realize  that 
you're  a  great,  tall,  growing  sixteen- 
year-old  public  school  man. 

Perhaps  your  letter  and  some  of  the 
things  you  ask  me  in  it  bring  me  to 
earth  with  a  bit  of  a  shock!  Very  soon, 
even  before  I'm  an  elderly  woman,  you'll 
be  a  man. 

It  makes  it  rather  difficult  for  me, 
dear,  because  I  am  not  yet  elderly,  and 
I  am  rather  shy.  But  I'll  put  my  shy- 
ness in  my  pocket. 

68 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         69 

Read  what  I  am  going  to  say  very 
carefully.  Big  Pal  is  talking. 

You  came  into  the  world  like  all 
babies  in  the  ordinary,  extraordinary 
way.  There  is  no  mystery  about  it  at 
all,  and  nothing  whatever  to  be  ashamed 
of.  Men  and  women  worthy  the  name 
don't  discuss  these  subjects  for  two 
reasons.  Firstly,  because  they  under- 
stand them,  secondly  because  they  con- 
cern that  deepest  and  most  beautiful 
emotion  in  the  world  called  Love. 

In  a  measure,  you  know  what  love  is 
already.  I  love  you.  You  love  me. 
Yet,  you  wouldn't  go  bragging  to  other 
men  about  how  much  you  love  me. 
You  are  reticent  about  that  very  love 
because  it  is  so  sacred,  so  deep  inside  of 
you.  The  other  love — without  which 
we  should  not  have  our  being — is  sacred 
in  the  same  sense. 

You  love  me  in  a  great  deep  unex- 
plainable  way  because  you  are  part  of 


70         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

your  father.  And  your  father  loved  me. 
Do  you  follow  that?  The  rest  of  you 
is  me. 

I  loved  your  father  as  only  a  woman 
can,  because  I  wished  him  to  make  me 
the  mother  of  you. 

If  you  do  not  understand  that  go  to 
any  one  of  the  masters  you  are  friends 
with  and  ask  him  what  you  want  to 
know.  Then  come  back  and  read  this. 

Now  you  understand  that  men,  and 
even  boys  who  are  growing  into  men, 
owe  a  duty  to  all  women  for  the  sake  of 
their  mothers. 

All  women  are  not  good;  all  men  are 
not  good ;  all  boys  are  not  good. 

You  must  know  that.  You  can  be 
sorry  for  that,  but  it  need  not  otherwise 
concern  you.  You  can  help  to  make  the 
world  a  better  place,  not  by  preaching 
but  simply  by  living  a  decent  life  now 
and  when  you  are  older  thinking  decent 
thoughts. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          71 

Some  boys  and  young  men  think  it 
is  funny  to  joke  and  make  light  of  sub- 
jects that  nicer  people  do  not  talk  about. 
One  of  the  truest  and  tritest  of  sayings 
is  that  "familiarity  breeds  contempt." 
The  wrong  kind  of  familiarity  is  meant. 
The  right  kind  is  synonymous  with  love. 
So,  in  the  same  way,  if  you  become 
wrongly  familiar  with  subjects  that 
should  be  sacred  to  you,  I  assure  you 
that  in  later  years  you  will  lose  the 
greatest  joy  life  can  give.  You  will 
blunt  the  edge  of  the  emotion  that  leads 
a  man  to  choose  a  good  wife,  make  a 
good  home,  be  a  good  father  and  a  good 
man. 

Love,  if  you  let  it  come  to  you  at  the 
right  time,  which  is  the  Appointed  Time, 
can  be,  will  be,  the  Poem  of  Life,  the 
Crown  of  Existence. 

My  poem  was  one  short  verse. 

Once  you  understand  it,  put  this 
subject  out  of  your  mind.  The  time  to 


72         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

know  more  about  it  is  not  yet.  It  if 
sacred.  I  cannot  say  the  word  often 
enough.  Death  is  sacred.  Birth  is 
sacred.  All  things  that  concern  life 
vitally  are  sacred.  Never  joke  about 
them.  You  are  not  yet  old  enough  to 
know  whether  a  joke  is  in  good  taste 
or  bad  taste,  merely  funny  or  merely 
vulgar. 

Remember,  too,  if  you  should  be  led 
into  a  discussion  of  these  subjects  with 
other  boys  you  would  be  making  light 
unwittingly  of  the  most  intimate  events 
in  your  mother's  life,  events  associated 
with  her  greatest  happiness  and  her 
greatest  pain.  Therefore  I  feel  sure 
you  will  not  do  it.  Nice  boys  keep  off 
such  matters  for  the  same  reason  that 
nice  people  do. 

Now  I've  used  up  so  many  sheets  of 
paper  in  trying  to  clear  up  the  fog  I 
could  see  you  were  in  that  I  have  very 
little  room  left  to  tell  you  actual  bits  of 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          73 

news.  I  shall  have  to  give  them  to  you 
in  headlines,  like  the  daily  papers. 

The  carpenter  has  just  finished  mak- 
ing your  butterfly  case.  Shall  I  send  it 
on  or  keep  it  for  you  until  the  holidays? 

I  can't  get  a  tie  exactly  the  shade  of 

the  sock  you  sent,  but  Captain  

bought  the  enclosed  in  the  Burlington 
Arcade.  Although  it  isn't  a  very  good 
match  it's  a  jolly  nice  tie.  Write  and 
thank  him  for  it. 

I  am  so  glad  you  have  enjoyed  reading 
Stalky  6f  Co.  Do  you  know,  ever  since 
you  have  been  a  schoolboy  I  have  read 
it  in  bed  every  night  of  my  life.  Bible 
in  the  morning.  Stalky  &  Co.  at  night. 
I  think  I  know  it  by  heart.  Isn't  it 
fine  where  McTurk,  forgetting  he  is  a 
schoolboy  caught  poaching,  rounds  on 
the  keeper  for  shooting  a  fox,  and 
talks  to  Colonel  Daubeney  as  "man  to 
man?"  And  the  chapter  called  an 
"  Unsavoury  Interlude, "  in  which  Beetle 


74         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

and  Stalky  retaliate  on  Heffy's  house  by 
means  of  the  dead  cat?  And  I  love  the 
dear,  sly,  tolerant,  Padre  with  his  big 
understanding  heart  for  these  young  rips. 
Stalky 's  war- verse  is  set  to  music  in 
my  mind.  I'm  often  humming  it. 

"Arrah,  Patsy,  mind  the  baby! 

Arrah,  Patsy,  mind  the  child ! 
Wrap  him  up  in  an  overcoat, 
He's  surely  goin'  wild!" 

You  can  forgive  Stalky  &  Co.  all  the 
outlandish  things  they  did  when  you 
read  the  last  chapter,  and  see  what  fine 
men  they  became.  It's  a  chapter  to 
make  one  choke,  and  then  to  turn  back 
and  read  again  the  poem  at  the  begin- 
ning. It  doesn't  properly  soak  into  you 
until  you've  finished  the  book. 

"  Western  wind  and  open  surge 
Took  us  from  our  mothers; 

Flung  us  on  a  naked  shore 

(Twelve  bleak  houses  by  the  shore 

Seven  summers  by  the  shore !) 
'Mid  two  hundred  brothers. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          75 

"  Let  us  now  praise  famous  men — 
Men  of  little  showing — 

For  their  work  continueth, 
And  their  work  continueth, 
Broad  and  deep  continueth 

Greater  than  their  knowing!" 

Your  father  had  a  veneration  for 
Kipling,  something  even  deeper  than 
that.  He  was  an  unemotional  man,  but 
Kipling  stirred  him  immensely.  He 
could  never  manage  to  read  the  Barrack 
Room  Ballads  without  breaking  down. 
He  once  described  the  effect  they  had  on 
him  in  these  words:  "It's  as  if  the  man 
actually  digs  his  pen  into  one's  stomach 
and  twists  it  there."  I  think  Kipling 
takes  all  real  men  like  that.  Effeminate 
men  and  most  women  are  unable  to 
appreciate  him. 

The  power  of  the  pen  is  a  wonderful 
thing,  Son.  If  you  write  at  all,  I  want 
you  to  write  like  that — real,  live  stuff, 
stuff  for  men  and  the  women  who  are 
the  wives  and  mothers  of  men. 


76         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

But  I'm  forgetting  you're  only  sixteen. 
Anyway,  this  letter  must  go.  I  haven't 
time  to  write  another. 

Your  devoted 

MOTHER. 


On  the  Joys  of  "WancJerfng 

(Posted) 

pvARLING: 

*-^     You  ask  me  to  think  of  a  new  and 

jolly  way  to  spend  the  summer  holidays, 

especially  as  C is  coming  to  stay 

with  you.  Now  what  can  we  do?  I 
know  the  house  is  "beastly"  small,  and 
that  you  can't  swing  a  cat  in  the  rooms. 
And  there's  no  garden.  Rotten!  I 
quite  agree. 

I  can't  afford  to  hire  a  car,  or  we'd  go 

on  a  motoring  tour.     And  Captain 

is  abroad,  so  he  can't  help  us  with  a 
brilliant  notion.  Let  me  sit  with  my 
head  in  my  hands  and  think. 

I've  got  it! 

We'll    take    tickets    to    Devonshire, 
Somerset   or   wherever   you   like,    and 

77 


78         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

we'll  walk  back.  We'll  camp  out. 
We'll  be  gipsies,  rogues,  and  vagabonds. 
We'll  have  the  jolliest  time.  I've  done 
it,  so  I  know. 

Years  ago,  when  I  was  seventeen,  and 
a  most  unrecognizable  madcap,  I  walked 
from  Cornwall  to  Kent  with  a  girl  friend. 
We  slept  in  inns,  and  we  lived  on  milk, 
butter,  honey,  and  eggs.  We  started 
with  all  sorts  of  luggage,  silver-backed 
hair-brushes,  boot-trees,  and  our  gro- 
ceries. But  we  sent  our  dressing-cases 
home  the  first  day,  shed  other  things  as 
we  went  along,  and  finally  reduced  our 
luggage  to  a  frying-pan.  After  that  we 
enjoyed  ourselves.  We  bathed  every 
day  in  the  delightful  rocky  coves  you 
find  everywhere  along  the  Cornish 
coast,  and  afterwards  in  the  streams 
we  came  across.  And  we  washed  our 
clothes  and  waited  till  they  were  ready 
to  put  on  again.  We  had  a  most  rough- 
dried  appearance  when  we  arrived  home, 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          79 

but  we  were  as  brown  as  berries  and 
felt  splendid. 

When  spring  comes  round,  even  now 
that  I'm  a  sensible  old  mother,  I  begin 
to  feel  a  stirring  in  me — a  sap-rising 
sort  of  feeling — and  I  long  to  wander. 

Just  to  wander.  Men  get  the  feeling. 
It's  as  old  as  the  hills.  It  takes  them 
into  strange  countries  and  makes  them 
discover  things.  It  took  Livingstone  to 
Africa,  Scott  to  the  South  Pole,  Colum- 
bus to  America.  Poor  old  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  had  it  badly.  Girls  get  it  too, 
sometimes,  but  they  can't  give  way  to  it, 
because  girls  generally  have  to  stay  at 
home.  It's  the  same  instinct,  I  suppose 
—this  call  to  "go" — that  takes  the 
salmon  to  the  sea,  and  the  reindeer  to 
the  salt  water.  But  it's  healthy,  and 
it's  natural,  and  it's  ripping.  Christ 
said,  "Take  up  your  bed  and  walk." 
I  often  think  He  meant  it  in  more  ways 
than  one.  Walking,  wandering,  is  a 


8o         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

sort  of  soul  medicine  for  grown-up 
people,  just  as  eating  a  special  grass 
along  the  roadside  is  good  for  dogs. 
For  you  boys  it  will  be  just  a  jolly 
adventure. 

Of  course  if  I  come  I  shall  have  to 
carry  a  little  luggage  because  it  doesn't 
do  to  look  an  idiot  at  my  age,  and, 
besides,  you  wouldn't  like  your  mother 
to  resemble  a  new-art,  fresh-air  crank. 
I  shall  wear  a  light  tweed  walking-dress, 
and  a  sailor  hat.  I  promise  you  I'll 
look  smart  and  workmanlike. 

Talking  of  looking  "smart"  reminds 
me  of  when  you  were  at  your  prepara- 
tory school.  I  don't  suppose  you  re- 
member the  letter  you  wrote  me  in  your 
second  term?  "Darling  Mother,  the 
school  sports  will  be  next  week.  Bring  so 
and  so.  For  goodness  sake  come  smart!  " 

Well,  how  does  the  idea  of  a  walking 

tour  suit  you?  Talk  it  over  with  C , 

and  let  me  know. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          81 

You  boys  need  only  wear  old  grey 
flannels,  and  carry  a  rolled  mack  each. 
I  shall  sleep  in  inns.  You  can  sleep  in 
haystacks  or  anywhere  you  like  on  fine 
nights. 

Of  course  you  and  C could  go 

alone,  but  I  should  very  much  like  to 
come  too  if  you  feel  that  I  shan't  spoil  it. 
I  shall  at  least  be  useful  with  the  frying- 
pan! 


On  the  Death  of  an  Old  Dog 

(Posted) 

DOOR  dear  old  faithful  Kibob  is  dead. 
I  know  how  sorry  you  will  be. 
When  you  went  back  this  term  I  had  a 
feeling  that  he  knew  he  would  not  see 
you  again.  The  weight  of  his  years  lay 
very  heavily  on  him  at  the  last.  He 
grew  so  sad.  He  had  taken  to  a  strange 
and  eerie  habit  of  late.  He  would  go 
off  for  solitary  walks,  and  then  I  would 
hear  long-drawn  howls,  and  following 
the  sound  find  old  Kibob,  standing  stock 
still,  pointing  at  nothing  that  I  could 
see,  and  at  intervals  throwing  up  his 
head  to  intone  a  mournful,  tuneless  note. 
When  I  got  near  enough  to  call  him 
he  would  come  to  me  with  ponderous 
gladness,  wagging  his  tail  as  fast  as  he 
82 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         83 

could,  which  was  not  really  as  fast  as  he 
used  to.  I  never  could  find  out  the 
reason  why  he  bayed  in  broad  daylight. 
Perhaps  he  felt  so  old  and  tired  that  he 
despaired  of  death  coming  to  him  un- 
less he  called  it. 

Of  course  it  is  only  natural  that  he 
should  have  died.  Fourteen  is  a  ripe 
old  age  for  a  dog.  We  can  console  our- 
selves that  in  return  for  his  canine  love 
we  have  given  him  all  that  human  beings 
can  give  a  four-footed  friend — under- 
standing, care,  kindness,  exercise,  food, 
a  warm  bed.  He  has  never  known  a 
cross  word  or  a  blow  since  he  was  a 
puppy,  and  those  which  had  to  be 
administered  to  make  of  him  a  perfect 
gentleman  whose  kennel  was  our  house, 
must  long  ago  have  faded  from  his 
mind.  His  days  have  been  one  long 
chapter  of  food,  the  chase,  human  com- 
panionship, dog-meetings,  friendships, 
fights,  and  dreams. 


84         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

Somewhere  old  Kibob  is  waiting. 
We'll  think  he  heard  his  master  calling. 
When  we  next  see  him  he  won't  be  old 
Kibob  as  we  remember  him,  toothless 
and  battle-scarred,  but  Kibob  in  his 
prime,  Kibob  who  could  race  a  motor 
car  for  thirty  glorious  breathless  seconds 
and  then  miraculously  escape  death. 
I  can't  imagine  a  heaven  without  dogs, 
can  you? 

Just  at  the  end  he  was  in  pain  and 
very  weak,  so  I  sent  for  the  vet.  to  help 
him  over  the  last  stile.  But  the  vet. 
was  a  long  time  coming,  and  after  I 
had  given  a  half  teaspoonful  of  brandy 
I  sat  by  him  holding  his  paw.  Every 
now  and  then  he  kept  on  lifting  his  head 
and  looking  at  the  door. 

"Our  little  master's  at  school,"  I 
said. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  I  verily  believe 
he  understood.  My  last  words  to  him 
in  this  world  were: 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          85 

' '  Kiss  me  for  little  master. ' '  (You ' ve 
seen  him  do  it.) 

He  put  his  burning  nose  against  my 
hand,  and  kissed  it — for  little  master. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  died,  and  we  lost 
a  friend. 

Dear  old  Kibob!  May  he  not  feel 
lonely  in  the  trackless  hunting-grounds ! 


On  a  Declaration  of  Faith 

(Posted) 

pvEAREST : 

•—^  I'm  so  glad  you've  told  me.  I 
guessed  something  of  the  sort  was  going 
on  inside  you,  and  I  was  afraid  you 
would  keep  it  bottled  up.  Now  that 
you  have  spoken  of  it  of  your  own  ac- 
cord I  can  advise  and  I  think  help  you. 
Fancy  imagining  I  should  be  shocked  or 
angry!  Why,  dear,  I've  been  through 
the  same  thing  myself — doubts  of  God, 
doubts  of  everything,  savage  mistrust. 

You're  seventeen,  and  what  you  tell 
me  only  shows  that  you  have  begun  to 
think  a  bit  sooner  than  most  boys,  that's 
all.  But  you  haven't  thought  enough. 
You  say  you've  read  Darwin  andHaeckel, 
and  you  can't  believe  there  is  a  God,  and 

86 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER         87 

that  you're  an  atheist,  and  therefore  I 
must  think  you  wicked. 

I  don't.  You've  got  to  a  blank  wall, 
and  you  can't  see  over  it.  The  wall 
illustrates  your  own  mental  limitations. 
Surmount  those  and  your  view  won't  be 
restricted. 

I  too  have  read  Darwin  and  HaeckeL 
Some  of  their  conclusions  I  understand 
and  some  I  don't,  because  of  the  tech- 
nicalities. Like  you  I  once  thought 
there  was  no  God.  And  I  now  know 
there  is.  Darwin  or  Haeckel,  if  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  do  not  deny  the 
existence  of  a  Deity.  They  were  much 
too  clever.  What  they  do  destroy  is 
the  conventional  idea  of  heaven  and 
hell.  But  they  don't  destroy  God. 
They  might  as  well  have  tried  to  argue 
against  the  organization  of  the  universe. 
They  didn't  do  that.  They  merely 
demolished  the  wrong  kind  of  faith. 
But  they  give  you  something  in  its 


88         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

place.  They  expound  a  consecutive, 
scientific  line  of  thought  that  should 
lead  you  straight  to  a  real  conception 
of  the  true  God — the  Infinite  Mind. 
They  destroyed  once  and  forever  the 
Biblical,  anthropomorphic  idea  of  a 
white-bearded  Deity  with  a  crotchety 
temper  and  other  human  attributes. 

After  I  had  lost  faith  in  the  bewilder- 
ing maze  of  dogmatic  statements  and 
meaningless  Church  forms,  I  set  my 
own  mind  at  work  to  try  and  find  out 
whether  there  was  a  Thinking  Creator. 
It  seemed  obvious  that  there  must  be  in 
Nature  something  more  than  a  mere 
haphazard  dictator  of  fortuitous  cir- 
cumstance. Everything  in  Nature  is 
thought  out.  Everything  is  too  obvi- 
ously planned  for  it  to  be  chance. 

Of  course  this  is  a  woman's  reasoning, 
and  clever  men  might  pick  holes  in  it. 
But  they  couldn't  say  I  was  fundament- 
ally wrong.  In  building  up  a  theory  of 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          89 

God  they  know  no  more  and  perhaps  a 
little  less  than  I  do,  because  they  go  by 
cold  reason,  and  I  go  by  feeling.  Feeling, 
which  is  intuition,  takes  one  right  over 
the  stumbling-blocks  that  strew  the  path 
of  reason.  Intuition  is  seldom  wrong. 

Well,  intuition  tells  me  there  is  a  God, 
and  reason  backs  me  up.  You  will  see 
why  directly. 

So  you've  got  God  back,  or  you 
ought  to  have. 

Think  of  that  as  a  fact  by  itself. 
You  needn't  associate  it  with  questions 
of  religion.  You  needn't  go  into  a 
consideration  of  all  the  forms  religion 
has  taken,  all  the  deities  men  have 
worshipped — Buddha,  Christ,  Moham- 
med, the  Heathen  and  Greek  gods. 
All  that  doesn't  matter.  Let  me  tell 
you  simply  of  the  one  God  that  does — 
the  one  God  I  believe  in. 

Let  us  think  about  His  attributes. 
Until  we  have  some  conception  of  them 


90         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

we  can't  argue  as  to  God's  attitude 
towards  us,  or  see  how  much  or  how  little 
the  individual  means  in  the  scheme  of 
things. 

God  is  an  Artist.  Think  of  that  first 
and  foremost.  I  hardly  need  to  prove 
it  to  you.  Everything  in  Nature  is 
beautiful.  A  sunset  will  tell  you  that 
God  is  an  Artist. 

God  cares  sufficiently  to  make  this 
world  we  live  in  (one  of  many)  beautiful 
to  us  and  for  us.  A  flower  smells  sweet. 
True,  it's  scent  attracts  the  bee,  but  it 
also  pleases  us. 

God  cares  sufficiently  to  give  us 
pleasurable  emotions.  Look  at  your 
life  now.  Isn't  it  a  pleasant  one?  But 
it  might  not  have  been.  Youth,  whether 
it  is  passed  in  a  good  school  or  the  gutter 
is  full  of  pleasures.  Even  the  slum- 
child  has  its  joys.  Pleasure  is  of  course 
relative,  but  in  either  case  it  must  have 
been  ordained. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         91 

As  life  goes  on  our  pleasures  are  in- 
creased, not  lessened.  And  in  addition 
we  are  given  another  gift,  about  which 
you  ask — Love. 

Love  is  sublime.  Together  with  an 
emotion  that  might  have  been  purely 
physical  and  fleeting,  provided  merely 
for  the  perpetuation  of  the  race,  God  has 
incorporated  a  love  which  is  spiritual 
in  its  essence,  and  above  all,  enduring. 
Then  from  this  miraculous  blend  of  two 
emotions  which  one  would  have  said 
could  never  be  brought  into  relation 
with  each  other,  we  get  another  love, 
that  of  parents  for  their  children. 
Besides  these  emotions,  there  are  others 
which  give  rise  to  the  attributes  of  cour- 
age, heroism,  self-sacrifice,  and  many 
other  virtues.  They  all  partake  of  the 
Divine.  They  all  show  that  God  cares. 

And  then  when  you've  got  as  far  as 
that,  you  come  to  another  blank  wall. 
I  couldn't  see  over  mine  for  a  long  time. 


92         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

This  was  it :  Assuming  that  God  cares, 
what  is  the  reason  for  sin,  suffering, 
death — above  all  death? 

The  answer  to  the  first  is  simple:  We 
need  not  sin.  Consciously,  I  mean. 
We  are  thinking  beings,  and  the  choice 
between  right  and  wrong  has  been  left 
to  our  discretion.  The  touch  of  Divin- 
ity in  us  ought  to  guide  us  in  that  choice. 
That  it  does  not  always  do  so  only 
shows  that  we  are  spiritually  imperfect, 
and  mentally  lacking  in  discretion.  In 
other  words,  sin  is  ignorance.  We  can 
get  rid  of  ignorance  by  cultivating  our 
intellect.  The  more  intellectual  we 
become  the  less  we  sin.  Does  the 
reasoning  appeal  to  you?  Anyway,  take 
this  advice:  don't  think  about  sin,  and 
avoid  it  when  it  comes  your  way. 

But  death? 

God  seems  callous  about  death.  To 
us  it  is  of  the  deepest  import,  because 
as  we  understand  life  it  is  the  end. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          93 

But  in  God's  seeming  callousness  I 
read  the  most  hopeful  message  of  all. 
Death  does  not  imply  an  end.  He 
never  meant  us  to  look  at  it  like  that  or 
that  we  should  think  and  speak  of  it 
with  bated  breath  as  a  dread  thing. 
Death  is  only  one  of  Nature's  changes. 
It  ought  to  be  regarded  without  fear. 
Fear  of  death  came  with  the  lust  not 
the  love  of  life.  I  love  life.  I  loved 
it  more  once.  But  I  have  never  been 
afraid  of  death.  I  love  it,  I  think,  as 
it  was  meant  to  be  loved.  When  it  is 
time  for  me  to  go  I  shall  be  ready  and 
resigned. 

So  death,  I  honestly  believe,  is  noth- 
ing to  God,  and  for  that  reason  we 
ought  not  to  deplore  it.  So  much  lies 
beyond. 

Something  must  lie  beyond.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is.  My  mind  is  too 
insignificant  to  inform  me.  What  it  does 
tell  me  is  this:  that  in  whatever  lies 


94         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

beyond  there  will  be  some  of  the  things 
we  understood  in  this  life — the  vital 
things  that  must  endure  because  there 
is  no  end  to  them,  because  they  are  part 
of  the  very  attributes  of  God.  Beauty. 
Love.  Joy. 

Even  the  greatest  sorrow  in  my  life — 
the  loss  of  your  dear  father — will,  I 
feel,  be  atoned  for  by  death.  I  know 
that  in  some  way,  perhaps  in  some 
amplified  way,  he  will  be  restored  to  me. 
Else  why  has  the  physical  tie  between 
us  been  severed? — a  tie  that  I  feel  to  be 
after  seventeen  years  as  strong  and  deep 
as  it  was  at  the  beginning.  There  must 
be  a  reason. 

Darling  son,  have  I  helped  you  at  all? 
It  is  so  difficult,  especially  for  me,  so 
unskilled  in  logic,  to  give  reasons  for  my 
deepest  beliefs  or  to  express  them  con- 
vincingly and  concisely.  All  I  know  is, 
they  are  convincing  to  me. 

You  see  now  that  in  the  accepted  sense 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          95 

of  the  word  I  am  not  religious.  I  do  not 
believe  in  a  lot  of  things. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  I  do  not  scoff 
at  other  people's  beliefs.  They  may 
mean  as  much  to  them  as  mine  do  to  me. 
I  have  always  gone  regularly  to  Church. 
I  counsel  you  to  do  likewise.  It  is  a 
pity  to  brand  oneself  as  ungodly  by 
stopping  away,  when  one  is  nothing  of 
the  sort.  Besides,  there  is  always  some- 
thing beautiful,  something  true,  in 
every  form  of  religion.  Even  a  whole- 
hearted dancing  dervish  has  a  spark  of 
divinity  in  him. 

I  do  believe  with  all  my  heart  in 
prayer,  in  the  same  way  as  I  believe  in 
telephony  and  wireless  telegraphy. 
There  is  a  scientific  truth  in  the  Biblical 
injunction:  "Ask  and  ye  shall  receive, 
seek  and  ye  shall  find,  knock  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you." 

For  instance,  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart.  But  when  you're  away  from  me, 


96         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

I  can't  send  you  the  things  you  want, 
or  answer  your  questions,  unless  you 
put  yourself  into  communication  with 
me. 

Now,  God,  the  Creator,  is  a  great 
law-maker.  Law  governs  the  tiniest 
thing  you  can  conceive.  There  are 
general  laws  and  particular  laws.  One 
of  the  particular  laws  is  that  you  must 
look  for  a  thing  if  you  want  to  find  it: 
It  doesn't  come  of  itself  to  you.  So, 
also,  I  believe  it  is  a  law  that  one  must 
pray  for  what  one  wants,  establish 
communication  between  oneself  and  the 
Deity,  and  not  expect  the  Deity  to  be  a 
sort  of  thought-reading  present-giver. 
Ask  for  what  you  want  with  a  "please" 
and  say  "thank  you"  like  a  gentleman 
when  you  get  it.  If  it  doesn't  come  off, 
pray  harder.  Half-hearted  prayers  don't 
get  there.  They  are  lost  on  the  way. 

Prayer  isn't  a  question  of  saying  "I 
want  so  and  so.  Please,  God,  give  it  to 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME          97 

me."  You've  got  to  put  some  force 
behind  the  prayer,  just  as  there  must  be 
power  behind  the  telephone  message  to 
send  it  to  its  destination.  You  know 
the  wooden  ball  in  which  the  shop- 
people  put  the  bill  and  money  and  then 
send  rolling  on  wires  to  the  pay-desk? 
They  have  to  give  something  or  other 
a  jerk  to  start  it  off,  don't  they?  Well, 
prayers  need  a  vigorous  send-off,  too. 

Very  few  people  cultivate  the  science 
of  prayer.  If  they  did,  most  wonder- 
ful things  would  be  happening  in  the 
world. 

As  it  is,  the  system  is  nearly  as 
imperfect  as  that  of  the  telephone.  The 
current  is  weak  or  the  connection  is 
imperfect ;  lines  get  crossed,  or  someone 
interrupts.  All  sorts  of  difficulties  arise. 

Still,  there  is  that  method  of  com- 
munication, and  it  is  meant  to  be 
used. 

Think  it  over,  darling. 

7 


98         THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

This  is,  after  all,  a  declaration  of  your 
mother's  faith. 

And  the  world  would  say  I  am  a 
heathen ! 


On  Going  "Without 

(Unposted) 

OOMETIMES  I  wonder  if  I  am  doing 
^  too  much  for  you.  Can  I  do  too 
much?  My  heart  says  "No."  And 
since  you  do  not  know  what  I  am  doing, 
it  cannot  spoil  you. 

To  give  you  all  the  things  you  need 
necessitates  my  going  without  in  a  way 
you  could  not  possibly  dream  of,  thank 
God.  I  would  not  let  you  know  for 
worlds.  It  is  as  well  for  your  peace  of 
mind  that  probably  you  will  never  know. 
A  boy  is  an  expensive  thing,  and  as 
he  gets  older  needs  more — money  and 
clothes.  But  you  are  a  good  boy.  You 
only  have  what  other  boys  have.  The 
pity  of  it  is  that  I  have  such  a  little  to 
give  you,  son  of  my  body  and  heart !  It 

99 


ioo       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

leaves  only  a  trifle  over  for  the  little 
mother  who  sits  at  home,  and  I  grudge 
even  that,  for  I  would  like  to  give  you  all. 

Of  course  you  judge  by  what  you  see 
in  the  holidays.  But  I  save  up  for  that 
time. 

It  is,  after  all,  no  great  self-sacrifice 
on  my  part.  I  have  merely  reduced 
going  without  to  a  fine  art.  For  the 
last  two  or  three  years  I  have  insisted 
upon  "Cookie"  taking  a  temporary 
place  and  only  coming  to  me  for  the 
holidays.  She  demurred  at  first,  the 
dear,  because  she  was  quite  sure  I 
couldn't  look  after  myself.  She  even 
offered  to  stay  on  without  wages.  I 
thanked  her  with  all  my  heart  and  told 
her  that  even  were  I  willing  to  accept 
such  a  sacrifice  (which  I  was  not)  I 
could  still  not  afford  to  keep  her,  where- 
at she  offered  to  "board  herself."  I 
fell  on  her  neck  and  wrept  at  such  sheer 
devotion;  but  I  carried  the  day,  and 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         101 

in  the  end  she  went.  I  think  Cookie 
always  had  pdte  de  foie  gras  designs 
upon  me  by  the  way  she  seemed  to  think 
I  needed  to  be  fed.  She  would  be  ap- 
palled if  she  knew  how  I  manage  on  so 
few  shillings  a  week !  And  yet  I  always 
have  an  egg  for  breakfast  except  when, 
as  the  woman  who  sells  them  puts  it, 
"eggs  is  up."  Then  I  have  bread  and 
butter  and  coffee.  Bacon  being  always 
"up,"  is  out  of  the  question.  I  often 
go  without  lunch  altogether.  It  means 
something  extra  for  you,  a  tie  or  socks, 
and  why  eat  when  one  is  not  hungry? 
I  can  always  have  tea  a  little  earlier. 

Dinner  is  generally  a  most  sustain- 
ing meal,  although  it  only  consists  of 
one  course.  Captain  — — ,  as  well  as 
"Cookie,"  seems  to  be  obsessed  by  the 
pdte  de  foie  gras  fancy,  and  so  I  often 
find  myself  rich  in  a  jar  of  turtle  soup, 
or  some  such  luxury. 

That's  one  way  of  economizing.     I 


102       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

have  others.  I  hardly  ever  buy  a  new 
frock.  It's  a  case  of  adapting  the  old 
ones  to  circumstances — and  change  of 
weather!  Occasionally,  I  make  a  guinea 
or  so  with  my  pen.  That  means  an 
extra  treat  of  some  kind  in  the  holidays. 
The  last  guinea  was  for  thirty-six  words 
on  a  postcard!  That's  sevenpence  a 
word ;  and  I've  always  understood  that 
newspaper  people  only  get  a  penny  a 
line.  Who  says  literature  is  ill-paid? 
My  thirty-six  words  were  "On  the  best 
way  of  using  up  stale  bread. " 

But  I  earned  another  guinea  in  a  less 
mundane  way.     It  was  for  this : 

He  travelled,  oh  so  joyously 
Along  the  paths  of  Truth. 

No  cloud  or  sorrow  anywhere, 
For  God  had  given  Youth. 

Then,  as  the  way  grew  harder 
And  the  sun  shone  hot  above, 

God  in  His  understanding 
Gave  him  the  gift  of  Love. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         103 

At  last  when  he  grew  weary 
And  panted  for  each  breath 

God  in  His  tender  mercy 

Sent  him  his  last  gift — Death! 

Perhaps  if  I  had  begun  earlier  I  might 
have  tried  to  write  seriously.  I  must 
possess  the  cacoeihes  scribendi  or  I 
should  not  in  my  lonely  hours  unburden 
my  heart  by  writing  unposted  letters 
to  my  son. 

I  was  all  too  interested  in  your 
father's  short  career  to  bother  about  one 
of  my  own.  He  used  to  let  me  correct 
some  of  his  proofs — high  honour!  And 
sometimes  I  would  shyly  make  a  sugges- 
tion, and  sometimes  he  would  adopt  it. 

But  Fleet  Street,  he  used  to  say,  is 
no  place  for  a  woman,  and  not  much  of 
a  place  for  a  man.  The  old  bohemian- 
ism  is  dead.  The  new  bohemianism  is 
debased  by  the  halfpenny  press.  Men 
of  letters  are  few  and  far  between,  and 
have  withdrawn  into  mountain  fast- 


104       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

nesses  where  they  can  be  heard  bewail- 
ing the  price  of  bread. 

So  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that  I 
confine  myself  to  making  money  in  the 
thriftiest  way — by  saving  it.  For  you, 
darling. 

Which  reminds  me  that,  so  far,  my 
coal  bill  has  been  nearly  nil.  I  do  all 
my  cooking  on  an  oil-stove.  And  when 
it's  rather  extra  cold,  as  it  is  at  the 
present  moment,  I  put  my  feet  on  a 
cushion,  wrap  myself  in  a  rug,  and  warm 
my  fingers  by  blowing  on  them. 

I  had  to  tell  a  lie  yesterday  afternoon. 

Captain dropped  in  unexpectedly. 

He  seldom  comes  without  first  letting 
me  know.  I  hadn't  a  fire  anywhere  in 
the  house,  and  I  couldn't  ask  him  into 
the  kitchen  where  the  tiny  oil-stove  was 
alight.  Nor  could  I  pretend  it  was 
warm,  because  it  was  one  of  the  coldest 
days  we've  had  this  winter.  I  put  a 
match  to  the  drawing-room  fire  at  once, 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         105 

and  apologized  for  the  chilliness  by  say- 
ing I  had  a  fire  in  my  bedroom.  Before 
I  knew  what  he  was  going  to  do  he  had 
taken  my  hands  in  his — just  for  a  mo- 
ment to  feel  them. 

"God  forgive  you,  you  sweet  liar," 
he  said.  "If  that  boy  of  yours  doesn't 
thank  you  in  after  years  he  ought  to 
be —  He  was  too  moved  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

Darling,  darling!  I  don't  ask  you  to 
thank  me  in  after  years.  I  only  want 
you  to  love  me  always.  I  only  want  to 
be  proud  of  you.  I  want  to  do  what 
your  father  would  have  done  for  you. 

What  is  cold  or  hunger  or  a  little 
privation?  I  am  the  mother  of  a  son, 
and  there  is  glory  in  my  heart. 


On  Dreams 

(Unposted) 

you  dream,  Son?  And  what  are 
your  dreams? 

It  is  night,  and  I  suppose  you  are 
asleep. 

How  people's  dreams  vary!  They 
vary  as  much  as  the  leaves  on  a  tree — 
not  one  alike. 

Do  you  ever  dream  of  me?  Some- 
times when  I'm  sitting  idle  at  night, 
a  little  too  tired  to  read  or  sew,  I 
try  and  will  myself  into  your  dreams. 
I  hope  I  haven't  come  in  at  an  in- 
opportune moment.  I  should  hate  to 
spoil  a  fine  catch,  or  a  big  hit,  even 
in  a  dream.  But  on  the  other  hand 
it  would  be  jolly  to  arrive  in  time  to 
divert  a  swishing,  or  write  your  impot 

106 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       107 

for  you,  or  make  some  wrong  come 
right. 

But  I  suppose  if  you  do  dream  your 
dreams  are  of  Games  and  Boys,  and  not 
of  the  mother  who  is  yearning  for  you 
at  a  distance.  You  love  her  sensibly 
and  properly  as  a  boy  should.  She's 
very  nice  to  see  in  the  holidays,  and  a 
good  pal — considering  she's  a  woman. 
And  you're  proud  to  be  seen  about  with 
her  on  Speech  Days,  because  even  the 
masters  thought  she  was  your  sister; 
but  she  doesn't  absorb  your  waking  or 
dreaming  life.  She  has  her  proper  place 
in  the  special  niche  where  boys  and  men 
keep  their  mothers  and  sisters.  It  is 
only  in  after  years  that  the  niche  is 
transformed  into  a  shrine,  made  beauti- 
ful by  the  pale  flowers  of  memory  or 
the  withered  leaves  of  regret. 

As  a  sign  of  perfect  health  perhaps  it 
is  best  you  should  not  dream  at  all. 
But  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 


io8       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

person  whose  sleep  is  dreamless  must  b« 
something  of  a  dull  dog.  Even  dogs 
dream — dogs  of  any  imagination,  that 
is. 

Indeed,  dogs  dream  a  lot.  One  can 
tell  that  by  the  twitching  of  their  limbs 
as  they  lie  asleep,  their  muted  barks  and 
whines.  The  reason  why  they  dream 
so  much  is  obvious.  Light  sleep  is  the 
dream-sleep.  Deep  sleep  is  dreamless. 
Dogs  sleep  very  lightly.  So  it  is  with 
human  beings. 

It  seems  to  me  there  is  not  a  moment 
of  my  sleep-time  that  I  do  not  dream. 
They  are  mostly  nonsensical  visions: 
I  am  a  girl  at  school,  or  I  have  dis- 
covered untold  wealth  in  the  shape  of 
jewels  and  gold,  or  I'm  serenely  driving 
a  motor  car  and  suddenly  discover  I 
neither  know  how  to  turn  round  or  stop, 
and  oddly  enough  it  doesn't  distress  me 
in  the  least. 

Once  I  dreamt  I  was  a  mutton-chop. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         109 

A  most  ridiculous  dream.  I  was  going 
to  be  served  for  your  father's  lunch,  and 
all  the  time  Cookie  was  trimming  and 
preparing  me  I  suffered  a  nightmare  fear 
lest  I  should  be  tough! 

Your  father,  who  was  a  good  shot  and 
loved  shooting,  had  one  stock  dream. 
He  would  give  a  short,  sharp  shout  and 
a  spasmodic  kick,  and  I  would  wake 
him  up  and  ask  what  was  the  matter. 

"Oof!  Stepped  on  a  rabbit!"  he 
would  mumble,  and  go  to  sleep  again. 

Sometimes  my  dreams  are  sad.  Once 
I  dreamt  that  you  had  died,  darling. 
And  I  sat  with  empty  hands  and  a  heart 
like  a  waste  of  waters. 

Oftenest  of  all  I  dream  that  your 
father  is  alive.  The  same  dream, 
always. 

In  this  dream  I  am  wandering  some- 
where about  the  house — always  the 
Old  House,  never  here — and  suddenly, 
unexpectedly,  I  come  face  to  face  with 


i  io       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

my  heart's  beloved.  A  cry  is  strangled 
in  my  throat.  I  rush  into  his  arms.  I 
feel  them  close  round  me  tightly,  and 
I  smell  the  dear  familiar  peaty  odour 
of  Connemara  tweeds. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead!"  I  sob, 
laughing  and  crying,  "I  thought  you 
were  dead!" 

He  laughs  then,  boyishly,  reassuring- 
ly, with  the  touch  of  tenderness  he 
always  showed  when  emotion  had  hold 
of  me. 

"Silly  little  woman!  Always  dream- 
ing! And  what  a  nonsensical  dream! 
I'm  here.  Don't  cry,  you  goose.  Dead 
men  can't  kiss.  Dead  men  haven't 
arms  to  hold  you.  Wake  up.  It's 
only  a  dream!" 

And  I  do  wake,  choking. 

I  sit  up  in  bed,  the  loved  voice  still 
echoing  in  my  ears,  still  smelling  the 
peaty  tweeds. 

Where  am  I?    Where  is  he?    Which 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         in 

is  the  dream  ?  The  dream  or  the  reality  ? 
I  grope  for  matches,  light  the  candle  to 
find  myself  in  the  "best  bedroom"  of 
a  rented  villa,  with  nothing  left  me  of 
my  life's  dream  but  the  faded  photo- 
graph of  a  man  by  my  bedside,  and  a 
son  at  a  public  school. 

I  cannot  tell  you  the  torture  of  that 
dream.  Every  night  I  dread  its  coming. 
For,  when  it  does,  I  know  that  it  is  a 
dream,  and  that  for  one  brief  moment  I 
shall  believe  it  is  not  a  dream  to  wake 
and  find  that  it  is  a  dream ! 

But  one  day,  one  day,  oh  my  heart, 
I  shall  dream  it  for  the  last  time,  know- 
ing that  I  dream  it  for  the  last  time,  and 
— I  shall  wake  . 


On  a  First  Term  at  College 
(Posted) 

PVEAREST — : 

*-*'  Public  school  is  behind  you.  You 
are  no  longer  a  lanky  boy  in  swallow  tails 
and  a  peculiar  straw  hat,  but  a  full- 
fledged  undergrad.  Will  the  sudden 
emancipation  from  school  restraint  to 
the  comparative  liberty  of  college  life  be 
a  danger  to  you?  I  hope  not.  Still, 
you  must  go  carefully,  like  a  young  horse 
learning  his  paces.  Give  him  his  lead 
too  soon  and  he  will  come  down.  You 
mustn't  come  a  cropper. 

I'm  afraid  this  must  be  rather  a 
preachy  letter,  dear.  If  your  father 
were  alive,  he  would  have  taken  you 
into  his  study  and  talked  to  you — man's 
talk  to  a  man-child.  He  most  certainly 

112 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER        113 

would  have  put  you  up  to  things  that  I, 
being  a  woman,  can't.  So,  poor  sub- 
stitute though  I  am,  I  must  try  and 
point  out  to  you  the  tremendous  import- 
ance of  the  next  few  years  in  your  life. 

I  am  very  seldom  able  to  say  serious 
things  to  you.  When  you  are  at  home, 
so  big  and  tall,  and  more  and  more  like 
your  father,  I  feel  such  a  little  mother, 
and  your  manner  is  so  grown-up  and 
protecting  that  the  wise  words  won't 
come.  I'm  so  afraid  the  idea  of  my 
advising  you  will  strike  you  as  ludicrous. 
Still,  I've  got  to  do  my  best. 

At  the  varsity  you  are  going  to  find 
out  for  the  first  time  the  real  meaning 
of  money.  Not  only  its  value  for  pur- 
chasing purposes  but  how  much  or  how 
little  other  people  think  of  you  accord- 
ing to  the  amount  you  possess.  You 
won't  need  to  go  about  with  a  placard 
round  your  neck  announcing  the  size 
of  your  income.  The  densest  of  people 


ii4       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

in  common  with  the  clever  ones  have 
this  peculiar  gift:  they  know  whether 
you  are  rich  or  poor.  I  think  it  is  the 
one  surviving  instinct  of  the  savage 
state.  We  have  lost  all  the  others  and 
developed  this  one  to  an  incredible 
degree. 

Poverty  or  wealth,  like  the  heel  of 
Achilles,  is  humanity's  vulnerable  spot. 
Therefore  don't  try  to  hide  it.  Yours 
is  the  heel  of  comparative  poverty.  It 
is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  Only 
vulgar  people  try  to  cover  it  up :  gentle- 
men never  do.  At  the  varsity  and  also 
in  later  life  you  will  make  this  discovery : 
that  a  frank  admission  of  slender  means 
makes  other  people  credit  you  with 
honesty  and  like  you  all  the  better  for 
it. 

I  tell  you  this  because  you  will  meet 
a  certain  number  of  the  vulgar  ones 
who  -foolishly  strive  to  conceal  their 
poverty  and  also  some  of  the  few  who  go 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        115 

through  life  flaunting  their  wealth.  I 
don't  know  which  are  the  more  con- 
temptible. The  worst  for  you  at  Cam- 
bridge will  be  the  sons  of  wealthy 
parvenus.  Wealthy  parvenus  and  their 
offspring  are  more  blatant  than  they 
used  to  be,  now  that  they  can  get  into 
the  universities.  Once  they  couldn't, 
or  they  had  no  ambitions  that  way. 
Then  the  universities  existed  solely  for 
the  sons  of  gentlemen. 

I  daresay  the  parvenu's  son  is  often 
decent  enough;  but  equally  often  he 
isn't.  His  home  environment  is  wrong. 
He  has  no  traditions  behind  him.  He 
holds  the  mistaken  idea  that  money  puts 
him  on  a  level  with  birth.  Rather 
higher  in  fact.  The  worst  of  it  is  he  is 
often  encouraged  in  that  idea  by  syco- 
phantic young  snobs  who  sponge  on  him. 
It  inflates  him  with  his  own  importance 
and  makes  him  look  down  on  his  supe- 
riors in  birth  and  brains,  just  as  the 


•n  6       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

over-educated  Hindu  ends  by  thinking 
slightingly  of  our  race.  But  in  both 
cases  the  veneer  is  very  thin.  Scratch 
it  and  you  expose  the  uncivilization  of 
the  native  and  the  ignoble  soul  of  the 
plebeian  boy. 

At  school  the  moral  damage  that  a 
child  of  ready-made  wealth  can  accom- 
plish is  limited  to  his  pocket  money. 
But  at  the  university  his  allowance — op- 
ulence to  a  person  of  moderate  means — 
makes  him  a  danger  to  others.  At  home 
he  has  grown  accustomed  to  hear  his 
father  talk  of  money:  now  that  he 
has  it  he  can't  resist  making  "money 
talk."  And  because  he  is  young  and 
foolish,  because  his  tastes  are  unrefined, 
and  because  his  instincts  are  not  manly, 
he  makes  it  talk  badly.  He  makes  it 
speak  in  terms  of  extravagance — expen- 
sive meals,  champagne,  loud  friendships, 
low  associations,  unnatural  gaiety — 
all  the  things  that  are  not  nice. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        117 

It  ie  this  type  of  person  you  should 
avoid.  When  you  are  older  you  will 
avoid  him  instinctively,  classing  him  as 
a ' '  howling  cad  "  or  an  "  awful  bounder. ' ' 
Which  reminds  me  that  what  I  said 
about  the  over-educated  Hindu  is  only 
meant  to  apply  to  the  native  student 
in  India.  I  know  that  many  of  the 
Orientals  at  Cambridge  and  Oxford  are 
quite  what  the  Americans  call  "white 
men." 

Perhaps,  after  all,  I  need  not  have 
urged  all  this.  You  know  plenty  of 
other  men  who  have  gone  up  to  Cam- 
bridge this  term — men  of  your  own 
class.  You  are  bound  to  foregather 
with  them  from  choice.  I  also  hope 
that  you'll  attend  lectures  and  study 
enough  to  make  quite  sure  of  your 
"Little-go. "  I  don't  want  you  to  swat, 
dear,  nor  to  neglect  such  things  as  row- 
ing, cricket  and  ' '  rugger. "  There's  time 
for  all  and  each. 


ii8       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

You  don't  say  whether  you  are  a  wet- 
bob  or  not.  Of  course  I  would  dearly 
like  you  to  get  a  place  in  the  varsity 
boat,  and  one  day  see  you  paddling 
back  from  Mortlake,  one  of  the  winning 
crew.  But  that's  looking  a  long  way 
ahead.  It  will  be  time  enough  to  think 
of  that  when  your  college  boat  has 
bumped  its  way  to  the  top  of  the 
river.  What  I'm  thinking  of  just  now 
is  sitting  in  a  skiff  next  May  with 
you  pulling  me  along  those  delightful 
"backs." 

I  knew  your  batting  was  better  than 
you  thought.  I  suppose  it's  that  late 
cut  of  yours  that  has  helped  to  get  you 
into  the  Fresher's  eleven?  I  specially 
want  to  see  you  one  day  at  Lord's — 
lifting  them  over  the  Pavilion!  I  know 
I  shall  make  a  silly  of  myself,  howling 
with  joy  if  you  do. 

I'm  glad  you  were  lucky  enough  to  get 
rooms  in  college.  It  must  be  better  to 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        119 

be  at  the  mercy  of  your  "bedder"  than 
a  rapacious  landlady.  I  much  prefer 
too  the  airy  simplicity  of  your  quarters 
in  •  to  the  stuffiness  of  lodgings 

with  their  hideous  wall-papers  and 
gimcrack  furniture.  And  then  again 
how  infinitely  inferior  is  the  confined 
view  of  a  dull  street  to  the  green  and 
quiet  beauty  of  the  quad  which  your 
windows  overlook.  I  daresay  rooms  in 
college  mean  that  you  are  subjected  to 
a  little  stricter  discipline,  but  I  shan't 
sympathize  with  you  about  that.  You 
share  it  with  a  lot  of  other  men  better 
than  yourself. 

Do  be  regular  at  morning  chapel. 
Don't  get  proctorized  and  don't  get 
gated — more  than  you  can  help!  Only 
milksops  steer  completely  clear  of  these 
two  troubles,  I  suppose.  I  don't  want 
you  to  be  a  milksop.  Keep  to  the  happy 
mean.  In  joining  the  Union  you  did 
exactly  what  I  wished.  But  go  there 


120       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

to  listen  and  ultimately  to  speak.  It 
has  been  a  nursery  for  some  of  the  best 
of  English  orators.  Who  knows  but 
that  one  day  you  will  get  into  Parlia- 
ment. Then  the  amateur  politics  of 
the  Union  will  have  been  a  fine  ground- 
work for  you  to  base  professional  ones 
on.  It  is  also  good  training  for  the 
Bar. 

Talking  of  politics  and  the  Bar  re- 
minds me  that  your  father  would  have 
taken  History  and  Roman  Law  for  his 
tripos  had  he  gone  up  to  Cambridge. 
He  used  to  say  that  a  sound  knowledge 
of  these  two  subjects  was  all-important 
to  anyone  engaged  in  literary  work,  and 
equally  essential  to  the  politician.  To 
that  he  added  that  ignorance  of  the 
lessons  of  history  bred  sedition,  and  was 
responsible  for  all  the  frothy,  meaning- 
less tub-thumping  of  demagogues.  It's 
early  yet  for  you  to  decide  on  a  career, 
but  if  you  find  you  have  a  leaning  to- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        121 

wards  either  literature,  politics  or  the 
Bar,  there  is  your  sainted  father's 
recipe  for  attaining  success  in  any  one 
of  the  three. 


On  a  Twenty-First  Birthday 

(Posted) 

PVEAREST — : 

••— '  I  wish  it  had  not  been  term-time, 
so  that  I  could  have  had  my  twenty-one- 
year-old  giant  at  home  to  congratulate 
and  kiss.  As  it  is  you  will  have  been 
twenty-one  quite  a  good  few  hours  by 
the  time  you  receive  this  and  the  little 
parcel  of  relics  which  I  send  with  all 
my  heart's  love.  The  watch  was  your 
father's,  and  I  beg  of  you  to  treasure  it. 
I  know  you  will  at  first.  It's  old- 
fashioned  and  not  keyless,  but  don't 
let  those  two  shortcomings  make  you 
think  less  of  it.  Its  value — apart  from 
its  intrinsic  good  qualities — ought  to 
lie  in  its  associations.  It  was  your 
father's  father's,  so  don't  part  with  it. 

122 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       123 

If  ever  you  should  be  tempted  to  do  so — 
and  it's  no  good  shutting  one's  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  young  men  are  sometimes 
tempted  to  part  with  things — just  stop 
and  think  for  one  moment.  You  will 
hear  my  voice  say  "Keep  it." 

I  hope  you  will  like  the  ring.  I  have 
taken  out  the  license  for  you  to  wear  it. 
I  like  our  motto,  don't  you?  Nee  venale 
auro.  Not  to  be  bought  with  gold! 
That's  old-fashioned  too — the  senti- 
ment, I  mean.  A  nouveau  riche  in 
search  of  armorial  bearings  would  steer 
clear  of  such  a  motto!  Another  reason 
for  pride  in  it. 

And,  last  of  all,  I'm  sending  you  your 
father's  copy  of  Roget's  Thesaurus. 
"  The  literary  man's  prompter,"  I  once 
heard  it  called.  Whether  you  decide 
to  be  literary  or  not  you  will  find  it 
useful.  There  is  not  a  page  in  it  that 
your  father's  eyes  have  not  conned,  not 
an  alternative  word  that  he  has  not 


124       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

pondered  over  at  some  time  or  other. 
He  was  such  a  stylist,  such  a  stickler 
for  the  right  word  in  the  right  place. 
Here  and  there  you  will  find  pencil 
marks  and  notes.  Even  now,  after  the 
long  years  it  has  lain  unused,  I  can  still 
faintly  smell  the  tobacco  of  which  it  was 
redolent. 

God  bless  you,  my  darling  boy.  To- 
day you  come  into  nothing  more  sub- 
stantial than  manhood's  estate.  It  is 
a  vast  heritage  for  all  that.  You  hold 
it  for  life — virgin  soil  to  cultivate  as  you 
will.  You  were  born  at  three  o'clock 
on  a  summer's  morning.  I  remember 
that  dawn  so  well.  I  remember  your 
being  placed  in  my  arms.  I  remember 
being  almost  afraid  of  your  littleness. 
I  remember  the  wonderful,  indescribable 
emotion  that  thrilled  me  when  I  saw 
your  little  downy  head  nestling  in  my 
arm.  I  had  to  repeat  over  and  over 
to  myself,  "You  are  a  mother.  This  is 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         125 

your  very  own  baby,"  before  I  could 
believe  it  was  really  all  true.  I  had 
a  dream-like  sensation  that  I  should 
wake  up  and  find  I  was  a  little  girl  who 
had  gone  to  bed  with  her  dolly. 

Curiously  enough  I  wasn't  a  bit 
anxious  to  know  whether  you  were  a  boy 
or  a  girl.  I  forgot  to  ask.  After  some 
time  your  father  came  up  and  drew  the 
bedclothes  away  from  your  face  and 
looked  at  you.  How  he  looked!  And 
then  he  kissed  me  and  whispered: 
"Thank  you  so  much,  my  darling-dear, 
for  our  little  son. " 

"Oh,  is  it  a  boy?"  I  asked. 

And  even  the  nurse  laughed. 

I  tell  you  these  most  intimate  things 
because  they  concern  you.  They  are 
the  baby  memories  every  mother  keeps 
with  the  put-away  baby  clothes. 

I  remember  too,  as  I  held  you  in  my 
arms,  how  I  marvelled  just  to  lie  and 
watch  you  breathing.  It  was  wonderful ! 


126       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

And  now  you  are  twenty-one,  a 
brawny  six-footer,  with  a  man's  voice 
and  a  man's  ways,  and  sometimes  it  is 
difficult  to  credit  you  could  ever  have 
been  that  helpless  little  lump  of  flesh, 
my  baby. 

I  want  to  tell  you  before  I  finish  this 
letter,  dear,  how  pleased  and  proud  you 
have  made  me  in  all  these  years.  I 
don't  think  you  have  ever  forgotten 
that  I  am  your  little  widowed  mother. 
Not  even  when  you  were  a  small  boy. 
And  in  your  school  life,  too,  I  have 
reason  to  be  thankful.  You've  been 
a  brick,  son!  Your  father  would  have 
been  so  pleased  and  proud.  He  want- 
ed you  to  be  a  good  all-round  work- 
er and  player.  I  have  always  carried 
these  words  of  his  in  my  memory,  and 
I  tell  them  to  you  now  that  you 
are  old  enough  to  appreciate  them. 
Take  them  as  his  birthday  wish, 
darling : 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        127 

"  /  want  my  son  to  go  through  life  with 
a  straight  bat." 

Your 

MOTHER. 


On  Sentence  of  Death 

(Unposted) 

A /I  Y  darling-dear: 

*  *  *  It  is  springtime.  The  world  is 
young  again  and  instinct  with  new  life. 
The  morning  air  is  full  of  the  earthy, 
scented,  dewy  smell  of  growing  things. 
Languorous  lilac  and  truculent  tulip 
are  making  my  garden  gay.  The  room 
is  flooded  with  spring  sunshine.  The 
curtains  are  fluttered  by  a  little  volup- 
tuous wind,  warmed  by  a  hint  of  summer 
yet  to  come. 

But  I  am  cold,  and  my  heart  feels 
numbed.  For  I  am  going  to  die.  Al- 
ready I  swing  in  the  scale  between  life 
and  death,  and  the  weights  are  against 
me.  Twenty-one  years  ago  I  longed 
to  die,  but  now  I  cling  to  life  because  I 
128 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       129 

do  so  urgently  want  a  glimpse  of  what  it 
may  hold  for  you  before  I  go.  I  have 
had  so  much  to  do  with  the  building  of 
the  ship.  It  is  cruel  to  think  I  may 
have  to  set  out  on  my  eternal  voyage 
before  I  have  seen  you  launched  on 
yours. 

It  resolves  itself  into  this.  After 
being  worried  so  persistently  by  you 

and  Cookie  and  Captain  to  let 

myself  be  "thoroughly  overhauled"  by 
a  competent  man,  I  at  last  made  up  my 
mind  to  satisfy  you  all.  And  so  I  went 
to  town  to  consult  a  specialist.  His 
verdict  means  that  as  I  cannot  afford 
to  be  expensively  ill  I  must  resign  my- 
self to  not  getting  well. 

I've  been  growing  used  to  the  idea, 
living  with  it,  for  over  a  week,  and  I  am 
tolerably  resigned  to  it,  except  when 
the  sunshine  floods  the  room  as  it 
does  now,  and  the  birds  are  singing  with 
such  frantic  joyousness.  After  all,  such 


130       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

feelings  are  natural — conquered  nature 
making  her  last  stand  against  disease. 
When  the  end  comes,  no  doubt  I  shall 
be  glad  to  go.  Physical  pain  is  so 
wearing.  But  my  very  life  has  been 
forged  upon  the  anvils  of  pain.  A 
little  more  or  less,  what  does  it  matter? 

The  interview  with  the  specialist  was 
an  ordeal  I  should  not  care  to  go  through 
again.  It  is  no  good  hiding  things  from 
one's  medical  man  or  one's  lawyer. 

Before  this  man  I  had  to  show  myself 
as  I  am,  stripped  of  the  soft  clinging 
clothes  which  make  of  me  in  your  eyes 
"a  little  girl-mother."  I  have  not  the 
contours  of  girlhood,  darling.  I  am 
pitifully  gaunt  beneath  the  folds. 

The  first  thing  my  blunt  physician 
told  me — as  is  so  often  the  case,  his 
bluntness  hid  a  kind  heart — was  that 
I  neglected  to  nourish  myself  properly. 
Then  he  reeled  off  a  list  of  expensive 
things  in  the  way  of  diet,  and  ended  by 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        131 

prescribing  a  sea-voyage,  which  he  said 
I  ought  to  have  taken  long  ago.  He 
worked  himself  into  quite  a  fury  over 
my  "self-neglect."  It  did  not  take  me 
very  long  to  see  that  he  was  trying  to 
harden  his  heart  before  dealing  the 
fatal  blow. 

"I've  always  eaten  when  I've  been 
hungry,"  I  told  him. 

He  accused  me  of  doing  nothing  to 
tempt  a  flagging  appetite  and  of  defer- 
ring to  seek  medical  advice.  Suddenly 
he  fired  out : 

"Good  heavens,  my  dear  woman,  do 
you  think  I  don't  know  how  you've  been 
racked  with  pain?  Why  didn't  you 
come  to  me  before?" 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me  now?" 
I  asked. 

He  told  me. 

It  was  only  one  word.  Women  of  my 
age  dread  it. 

I  kept  a  grip  on  myself  and  heard  him 


132       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

out.  Briefly  it  was  this:  I  must  either 
undergo  a  costly  operation  and  be  a 
semi-invalid  for  the  rest  of  my  life  or 
dispense  with  the  operation  and  let 
things  take  their  irretrievable  course. 

I  said  I  would  think  it  over.  I  went 
home. 

But  directly  I  had  figured  out  the 
expense  I  knew  I  should  have  to  forego 
the  operation.  I  could  not  and  would 
not  go  to  a  free  hospital,  nor  would 
I  accept  financial  help  from  our  best 
friend,  because  he  is  a  man,  and  because 
I  have  old-fashioned  prejudices  about 
a  woman  taking  money  from  a  man. 

I  have  enough  saved.  But  to  draw 
upon  it  for  myself  would  curtail  the 
allowance  I  make  you  at  college.  It 
would  mean  that  you  would  have  to  go 
down  without  taking  your  degree.  If 
I  let  you  do  that  all  my  sacrifices  would 
have  been  made  in  vain. 

Therefore  I  dare  not  tell  you  the  truth, 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        133 

and  I  have  posted  you  a  letter  assuring 
you  that  the  doctor's  verdict  was  quite 
favourable :  a  white  lie  for  which  I  shall 
surely  be  forgiven.  Here  I  can  write 
what  I  like.  You  will  not  see  the  un- 
posted letters  my  loneliness  has  prompted 
me  to  write  to  you,  until  after  my  release. 
Then  I  shall  not  mind.  They  will  per- 
haps show  how  I  loved  you.  Better  still 
if  they  make  you  comprehend  clearly 
how  carefully  I  have  planned  everything 
for  your  future  and  the  hopes  I  have 
cherished.  Perhaps  that  will  help  you 
to  fulfil  them. 

At  best,  if  I  take  care,  I  have  three  or 
four  more  years  to  live.  Meanwhile  I 
can  only  pray  for  strength  and  fortitude 
to  keep  the  truth  from  you.  I  am 
afraid  my  dying  will  not  be  easy. 

Now  I  think  of  it,  what  a  little  of  your 
life  I  have  had,  my  son.  More  than 
half  of  it — thirteen  years — has  had  to 
be  spent  away  from  me,  and  the  next 


134       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

few!  Oh,  I  shall  be  so  greedy  of  the 
vacations! 

I  have  made  my  will.  I  have  left 
instructions  that  my  ashes  be  mingled 
with  those  of  my  beloved  husband  and 
then  scattered  to  the  winds.  All  of  us 
that  is  earthly  borne  on  God's  air — 
imponderable  specks  of  dust  to  fall, 
perhaps  on  some  fragrant  flower;  to 
become  again  part  of  the  panorama  of 
inanimate  nature.  There  is  compensa- 
tion in  the  thought.  It  helps  to  rob 
death  of  its  sting. 

Interment  as  we  usually  practise  it 
is  a  noxious  thing.  I  wish  our  bodies 
could  vanish  together  with  the  last 
breath  they  draw,  and  so  save  others 
the  sad  task  of  disposing  of  them.  But 
I  suppose  that  would  make  it  too  easy 
for  murderers ! 

I  have  always  shrunk  from  the  idea  of 
being  placed  six  feet  below  the  earth  in  a 
common  burying-ground  with  strangers 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        135 

whom  I  never  knew  in  life.  Why  should 
I  therefore  lie  with  them  in  death? 
My  living  body  recoils  from  the  thought 
of  being  placed  in  a  wooden  husk  to 
decay  with  me.  I  could  only  become 
reconciled  to  burial  were  it  possible  to 
lie  asleep  with  only  the  sod  over  my 
face,  my  mound  solitary,  encircled  by  a 
garden  of  sweet  flowers  and  perfumes, 
wherein  my  spirit  might  sometimes 
walk. 

Contemplation  of  the  paraphernalia 
of  death — the  hearse,  the  carriages,  the 
sombre  trappings  of  outward  woe — jar 
upon  my  sensibilities. 

I  am  foolish  and  womanish  to  dwell 
on  this  aspect  of  a  thing  that  will  have 
ceased  to  concern  me  as  soon  as  it  has 
taken  place.  I  ought  to  be  entranced 
with  the  possibilities  of  all  that  eternity 
may  hold,  of  the  wider  knowledge  I  shall 
soon  possess. 

Death  cannot  be  the  end  of  things.     I 


am  convinced  of  that.  But  I  do  not 
crave  a  wider,  deeper  knowledge  of  what 
comes  after  it.  I  should  be  so  content 
with  a  little  special,  private  heaven.  I 
can  conceive  nothing  more  joyous  than 
this:  To  live  forever  with  your  father 
in  the  house  of  our  dreams — it  need  not 
be  made  with  hands  to  be  a  real  one. 
To  wait  for  you,  to  meet  you  at  our 
Garden  Gate  when  your  life  was  done, 
to  hear  its  happenings.  And  then 
through  eternity  to  be  together,  you  in 
your  heaven,  we  in  ours,  with  a  con- 
veniently communicating  staircase  be- 
tween. 

I  have  just  been  into  my  bit  of  a  gar- 
den, coaxed  out  by  the  rapt  beginning  of 
spring.  It  is  only  a  little  villa  plot,  but 
all  the  same  brave  with  colour.  The 
one  apple-tree  in  it — relic  of  a  departed 
orchard — is  a  mass  of  blossom.  Other 
trees  are  like  brides  tremulous  in  white 
veils.  How  I  would  love  to  wander  in 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        137 

the  grounds  of  our  old  house,  let  for 
so  many  years  now  to  strangers.  Kind 
old  house  yielding  us  an  income!  You 
will  go  back  to  it,  darling.  Please  God 
you  will  one  day  take  your  wife  to  it,  as 
your  father  took  me.  Your  children 
will  be  born  in  it.  Little  hands  will  play 
with  the  old  toys  lying  in  the  nursery 
cupboard;  little  feet  will  scamper  down 
the  moss-grown  paths.  I  shall  not  be 
there  to  hear  them.  .  .  . 

Cookie — back  again  for  good  and  all 
—came  in  a  moment  ago,  slippers  and  a 
shawl  in  her  hand. 

"There  now,  ma'am,  I  knew  your 
shoes  would  be  soaked  through  and 
through,"  she  chided,  flopped  down  on 
her  knees,  and  changed  them.  "The 
grass  is  always  soaking  in  the  mornings. 
You'll  catch  your  death." 

She  was  on  her  feet  again  as  she  spoke 
that  last  sentence,  with  her  eyes  on 


138       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

mine.  She  read  something  in  them.  I 
suppose  I  could  not  keep  it  out. 

"Cookie — "  I  began,  and  could  not 
go  on. 

With  a  cry  she  took  me  to  her  dear 
bunchy  print  bosom,  put  her  strong, 
capable  arms  round  me,  as  if  she  would 
hold  me  back  from  my  fate  by  the  sheer 
force  of  her  homely  love. 

"I've  seen  it  coming!"  she  choked. 
"Oh,  my  little  mistress!" 

There  are  moments  when  sympathy, 
be  it  that  of  faithful  servant  or  nearer 
friend,  is  what  the  comfort  of  the  angels 
must  have  been  to  Christ  in  His  Agony. 

I  am  the  better  for  the  tears  we  shed 
together. 

Dear  old  Cookie  will  have  red  eyes  foi 
the  rest  of  the  day,  and  the  tradespeople 
will  think  I  have  been  scolding  her! 

Why  do  living  people  shrink  from 
looking  upon  the  dead?  Death  is  out- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        139 

wardly  beautiful;  it  is  only  decay  that 
is  ghastly.  There  is  a  peace  and 
majesty  beyond  words  upon  the  faces 
of  the  dead. 

When  I  am  dead,  dearest,  if  the  love 
you  bore  me  living  is  not  strong  enough 
to  bring  you  to  take  a  last  look  at  me 
dead,  for  pity's  sake  do  not  force  your- 
self to  do  so  out  of  a  sense  of  duty.  It 
would  pain  me  to  think  that  your  gaze 
would  be  reluctant,  or  that  you  would 
not  be  able  to  kiss  me  without  a  shudder. 
My  lips  have  been  pressed  with  rapture 
by  your  father,  and  I  would  have  his 
son  kiss  them  with  lingering  love  at  the 
last,  or  not  at  all. 


On  a  First  Effort  in  Literature 
(Posted) 

IV  A  Y  dearest  Boy : 

*  *  *     The Review  with  your  article 

in  it  was  on  my  breakfast  table  this  morn- 
ing. When  I  turned  to  the  contents  page 
your  name  leapt  out  at  me,  although  it 
was  in  exactly  the  same  type  as  the  rest. 
It  is  your  first  serious  contribution  to 
a  recognized  journal  for  thinking  people, 
and  as  such  I  cannot  fail  to  be  proud  of 
you  and  it — this,  your  first  flight  into 
literature  proper.  Of  course  it  has  great 
merit,  otherwise  it  would  not  have 
been  accepted  for  such  a  good  publica- 
tion. "The  Educational  Significance 
of  Imperialism  "• —you  have  tackled  a 
big  subject,  and,  if  I  am  competent  to 
judge,  you  have  done  excellently. 
140 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       141 

What  pleases  me  most,  however,  is 
the  style  in  which  it  is  written.  Style 
is  a  wonderful  gift.  You  have  it,  just 
as  your  father  had  it.  Is  it  hereditary 
I  wonder? — that  rare  ability  for  saying 
exactly  what  you  mean  in  the  choicest 
words.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure:  you 
would  not  at  your  age  have  shown  your- 
self possessed  of  it  without  a  knowledge 
of  the  classics.  Even  your  limited 
reading  of  the  Greek  and  Roman  writers 
shows  in  the  article.  So  now  you  have 
a  tangible  illustration  of  the  advantage 
of  a  university  education.  It  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  that  the  best  form  of 
literary  expression  comes  from  the  uni- 
versities. A  great  many  self-educated 
men  are  credited  by  uncritical  people 
with  the  gift  of  style,  but  it  is  not  really 
that:  it  is  native  eloquence — quite  a 
different  thing.  It  may  carry  one  away 
but  it  is  not  always  art. 

Yes,   I   am  proud  of  you,  proud  of 


142       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

being  your  mother.  I  get  the  reflected 
glory,  you  see!  My  saying  that  won't 
give  you  "swelled  head,"  I  know.  If 
you're  in  danger  of  a  touch  of  that 

ailment  turn  to 's  article  on  — — , 

and 's   on   ,    and    you'll    get 

cured.  I'm  not  trying  to  belittle  your 
work,  only  pointing  out  how  fine  theirs 
is,  and  how  long  they  have  been  in  making 
their  literary  reputations. 

What  I  like,  too,  about  your  paper 
(isn't  that  the  proper  technical  way  of 
speaking  of  it?)  is  its  suggestiveness. 
You  touch  on  so  many  interesting 
subjects,  showing  that  you  could  write 
of  them  with  authority.  I  admire 
versatility — in  a  man.  Women  never 
seem  to  have  it.  A  curious  thing  about 
women,  moreover,  is  that  even  when 
they  stick  to  one  subject  they  are  seldom 
thorough  at  it,  never  so  thorough  as  a 
man.  A  woman  hasn't  the  same  close 
attentiveness  of  mind  as  a  man.  She 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        143 

invariably  fails  to  keep  to  the  channel 
of  thought.  Don't  I,  a  woman,  illus- 
trate that?  I'm  rambling  now.  Yes, 
we  are  impractical  creatures,  and  we 
need  man  to  keep  us  in  order. 

That  is  why  I  am  quite  indifferent 
about  Woman's  Suffrage.  We  may 
have  as  much  right  to  a  vote  as  the 
unintelligent  labourer,  but  that  would 
be  a  poor  reason  for  giving  us  one.  Two 
wrongs  do  not  make  a  right.  Universal 
suffrage  is  an  absurdity.  People  don't 
give  their  domestic  servants  the  right 
to  dictate  how  the  household  shall  be 
run.  The  average  servant  is  not  capable 
of  management.  Why  then  should  the 
much  bigger  affairs  of  a  country  be 
mainly  in  the  hands  of  its  least  intelli- 
gent class?  The  Suffragette's  reply,  I 
suppose,  would  be  that  her  intelligence  is 
infinitely  higher  than  that  of  a  labourer. 
I  daresay  it  is;  but  imagine  a  woman 
playing  at  statesmanship!  How  long 


144       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

would  she  keep  her  head  if  the  country 
were  scared  by.  the  cry  of  "War!" — or 
"A  Mouse!"  No,  what  women  need 
are  husbands,  not  votes! 

I  am  going  off  the  track  again!  I 
must  be  getting  old ! 

By  the  way,  dear,  you  said  something 
about  spending  half  of  the  vac.  with 
S .  Of  course  I  shall  be  disap- 
pointed not  to  have  you  with  me,  but 
you  must  do  as  you  like. 

Mothers  are  always  so  greedy.  Still, 
there  are  reasons  why  I  want  you  extra 
badly.  You  will  know  them  one  day. 
Can't  S come  to  us  instead? 

I  know  it's  only  a  villa,  but  Cookie's 
so  first-class  you  can  forget  that.  Cap- 
tain   says  you  two  can  have  his  car 

all  the  time.     Do  come,  darling! 
Your  devoted 

MOTHER. 


On  Success 
(Posted) 

1\  A  Y  darling  Boy : 

*•  Your  telegram  which  arrived  too 
late  for  delivery  last  night,  came  with 
the  letters  this  morning.  I  was  in  my 
bath  when  the  charwoman  who  comes 
in  the  morning  pushed  my  correspond- 
ence under  the  door.  At  sight  of  the 
pink  form,  like  Venus  rising  from  the  sea, 
I  leapt  out  and  seized  it,  not  even  stop- 
ping to  dry  my  hands.  I  knew  what  it 
was  about.  Have  I  thought  of  any- 
thing else  for  the  last  fortnight?  Success 
or  failure?  And  then  I  saw  in  the  joyful 
words,  so  full  of  meaning  to  you  and  me 
and  nothing  whatever  to  the  telegraph- 
ist (she  otherwise  surely  couldn't  have 
helped  adding  a  "hurrah"  of  her  own): 

10  145 


146       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

" First  class." 

Oh,  I  was  proud !  Oh,  I  was  thankful ! 
I  knelt  on  the  floor,  all  dripping,  and 
prayed  for  sheer  joy:  Honours!  And 
first  class  at  that!  I  dressed  in  a 
flutter  and  sent  you  my  answering  wire 
as  soon  as  I  got  downstairs.  After 
that  I  invited  Captain  — • —  to  dinner 
to  tell  him  the  great  news.  I  had 
promised  him  I  would.  We  had  the 
bottle  of  champagne  which  I  have  been 
treasuring  up  for  this  very  occasion. 

We  drank  your  health.  We  clinked 
glasses  across  the  table — we  two  silly  old 
people — and  sang  in  voices  tuneless  with 
emotion,  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow." 

Late  into  the  night  we  sat  and  talked 
about  your  Career.  Yesterday  was 
such  an  event  in  your  life.  I  had  to 
discuss  it  with  a  man.  I  needed  a  man's 
help.  Happily  I  have  it.  This  man 
has  been  a  faithful  friend  to  us,  dear; 
one  of  the  best,  one  of  the  few. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        147 

He  was  as  keen  about  your  future  as 
your  own  dear  father  would  have  been. 
At  first  I  was  too  excited  to  talk  sensibly. 
My  hopes  and  my  ambitions  for  you  ran 
away  with  me,  I  mapped  out  your 
prospects  in  extravagant  terms.  There 
was  nothing  you  were  not  to  attain  to. 
I  was  very  silly,  and  deserved  the  pull- 
ing up  I  got. 

Captain brought  me  down  from 

the  clouds.  (I  wish  I  had  a  man's 
control;  and  yet  at  this  moment  I 
wouldn't  change  my  exuberant  mother's 
feelings  for  all  the  masculine  wisdom 
and  logic  in  the  world!)  I  had  to  curb 
my  impatience  and  listen  to  his  sane 
views.  Soon  you  would  be  down  from 
Cambridge,  your  education  completed 
but  your  future  undetermined.  Your 
prospects  were  like  a  constellation  in  the 
nebulous  state.  They  might  be  dis- 
sipated in  space,  or  converted  into  a 
star  of  magnitude.  (I  sat  restlessly 


148       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

drumming  my  fingers  on  the  table  while 
he  spoke.)  They  must  not  be  left  to 
chance.  Had  I  determined  on  any 
particular  career  for  you?  None  defi- 
nitely. To  think  of  you  as  the  Lord 
Chancellor  or  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury or  the  Poet  Laureate  at  a  jump 
was  a  fairy  tale.  One  had  to  begin  at 
the  other,  the  small,  end. 

What  should  it  be?  Business?  No. 
The  Services,  the  Bar,  the  Church,  the 
medical  profession?  I  didn't  know. 
I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind.  I  wanted 
you  to  be  a  gallant  soldier  or  sailor,  a 
leading  Counsel,  a  great  divine,  a  famous 
doctor,  a  scientific  genius,  and  a  great 
painter  all  at  once.  I  wasn't  sure  that 
I  should  be  satisfied  even  then.  There 
was  Music,  Literature,  Exploration, 
Engineering,  Parliament 

He  stopped  me  there.  How  did  a 
parliamentary  training  appeal  to  me? 
I  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        149 

you  could  be  Prime  Minister.  Before 
I  had  time  to  answer  he  said  he  might 
be  able  to  get  you  a  private  secretary- 
ship to  a  friend  of  his,  a  M.P.  A  salary 
of  £150  a  year  would  go  with  it,  and 
you  could  make  something  at  literature 
in  addition.  Your  duties  as  secretary 
would  not  be  unduly  heavy ;  the  position 
was  a  decent  one;  you  would  meet  the 
right  sort  of  people;  you  would  have 
considerable  spare  time. 

It  sounded  delightful  to  me.  Does 
it  to  you?  You  would  have  chambers 
in  the  Temple,  and  make  "Fleet  Street" 
your  bedfellow!  Of  course  this  private 
secretaryship  is  in  the  air  at  present, 
and  we  mustn't  count  on  it,  though  I 
know  my  dear  friend  well  enough  to  be 
satisfied  that  he  would  not  have  pro- 
posed it  unless  he  had  something  to 
go  on.  Think  what  it  might  lead  to: 
an  under-secretaryship  to  a  Minister;  a 
constituency  of  your  own;  perhaps  a 


150       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

post  under  Government!  I  firmly  be- 
lieve the  Premiership  is  not  so  far  off 
after  all! 

Your  delighted 

MOTHER. 


On  London  and  its  Dangers 

(Posted) 

pvEAREST  -    -: 

*— '  When  I  said  good-bye  to  you  this 
afternoon  I  tried  so  hard  to  be  matter- 
of-fact  and  not  look  weepy,  but  I  was 
bursting  to  tell  you  to  be  careful  of  the 
motor-buses.  Ever  since  it  has  been 
definitely  settled  you  are  to  live  in  town 
I  have  done  nothing  but  read  about 
"Street  Dangers."  What  I  see  in  the 
papers  makes  my  eyes  dilate  and  my 
heart  palpitate.  Most  women — and  in 
this  category  you  must  count  me — 
are  as  constitutionally  timid  of  traffic 
as  they  are  of  cows.  And  yet  I  know 
it  is  no  good  telling  you  to  be  careful. 
You'll  exercise  as  much  care  as  the 
average  young  man  with  an  agile  pair  of 


152       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

legs,  and  no  more.  Beyond  that,  as  in 
all  other  things,  you  will  take  your  risk. 
I  feel  so  impotent.  I  want  to  safeguard 
you  from  every  danger  under  the  sun. 

I'm  sure  the  zenana  custom  originated 
in  a  man's  desire  to  protect  his  women- 
kind,  and  not  from  the  purely  selfish 
standpoint  of  hiding  his  womenkind 
from  other  male  eyes.  We  women  would 
dearly  like  to  protect  our  sons  and 
husbands  in  some  similar  manner,  not 
because  we  do  not  feel  we  can  trust 
them,  but  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
world  in  general  cannot  possibly  regard 
them  as  the  wonderful  beings  we  do. 

I  know  it  is  absurd  of  me  to  be  so 
apprehensive.  My  "fear  of  ill  exceeds 
the  ill  I  fear."  I'll  try  and  forget 
it. 

I  am  delighted  that  you  are  going  to 
start  life  under  such  promising  condi- 
tions. It  is  good  that  you  should  live 
in  London  and  gain  your  first  serious 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        153 

experience  of  life  in  the  most  cosmopoli- 
tan city  of  the  world. 

One  of  two  things  is  sure  to  make  its 
impression  upon  you:  the  grim  serious- 
ness of  London  or  its  frivolky.  You 
will  not  see  both  at  the  same  time.  The 
grimness  of  it  was  always  borne  in 
upon  me  most  forcibly  while  driving 
through  the  City,  where  men  swarm 
and  women  are  the  exception.  Away 
from  those  portions  where  leisured 
people  live  it  is  for  the  most  part  a 
City  of  set  faces,  thoughtful,  remorseless, 
tragic,  determined,  terribly  preoccupied; 
faces  of  men  who  are  being  swamped, 
who  are  swamping  each  other;  of  men 
who  will  succeed,  of  men  who  will  fail; 
and  all  of  them  men  who  are  grubbing 
for  .gold.  Nothing  there  but  what  is 
sordid.  But  there  is  a  touching  side 
to  this  tragedy  of  struggle.  If  one  had 
eyes  to  see,  one  would  perceive,  rising 
before  the  mental  vision  of  these  grim 


154       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

toilers,  faces  and  forms  of  soft  and  tender 
outline,  the  appealing  faces  of  women 
and  little  children  who  look  to  them 
for  bread — faces  and  forms  significant 
of  all  that  is  sublime  in  the  lives  of  the 
toilers,  yet  inciting  them  to.  redoubled 
efforts  in  the  bloodless  fight  for  existence. 

That  is  London  at  work. 

The  artificial  aspect  of  London  as  it 
will  first  burst  upon  you  is  a  riot  of 
shouting  colour — posters,  women,  thea- 
tres, restaurants,  shop-windows,  sky- 
signs — a  kaleidoscopic  blaze.  It  is  good 
for  the  soul  if  not  for  the  eyes  to  see  the 
other  drab  side  of  it  sometimes— the 
gaunt,  unilluminated  side.  Walk  on  the 
Embankment ;  see  the  derelicts  upon  its 
benches;  soak  in  the  heartbreak  of  the 
unhappy  scene,  and  wait  for  dawn. 
See  the  wrecks  arise  and  wearily  dis- 
appear into  that  limbo  where  the  sub- 
merged ones  of  a  large  city  pass  their 
waking  hours.  Night  over,  mark  the 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         155 

sober,  steady  hundreds  going  to  their 
daily  work.  It  is  not  all  light  laughter, 
it  is  not  all  heartbreak.  There's  a  sane 
and  happy  mean. 

London  affects  one  like  a  strong 
human  book  by  a  ruthless  author. 
Parts  of  it  are  so  pitiful  that  you  yearn 
over  them :  parts  so  ugly  that  you  hesi- 
tate to  read  on :  some  of  it  so  beautiful 
that  you  can  forget  and  forgive  the  rest. 
It  is  life  spread  thick. 

There  is  another  side  of  London  life 
— its  nocturnal  side.  Unhappily  it  has 
a  fierce  attraction  for  young  men.  I 
want  you  to  avoid  it.  London  by  night 
is  a  market  for  gross  charms.  It  dazzles 
with  its  electric  brilliance  and  blinds 
the  inexperienced  to  its  tinsel.  It  gives 
a  false  glamour  to  frailty,  makes  of  its 
idols  false  goddesses.  Beware  of  these 
painted  toys.  They  are  not  even  new. 
Others  before  you  have  played  with 
them  in  the  gutters  of  the  world.  But 


156       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

a  fresh  coat  of  paint  and  a  new  dress  of 
tinsel  mislead  unwary  youth. 

Nocturnal  city  life  may  almost  be 
called  the  drug-habit  of  youth.  It  saps 
the  body  and  enervates  the  mind. 
Eschew  it;  it  is  bad  form.  If  you 
must  be  intemperate,  wait  until  your 
head  is  stronger,  and  then  confine  your- 
self to  the  wine  of  pure  vintage. 

In  plain  words,  dear,  be  very  careful 
of  the  women  you  meet,  because  of  the 
woman  you  will  some  day  love.  One 
must  be  worthy  to  serve  at  Love's  altar. 
One  shudders  at  the  idea  of  a  votary 
who  approaches  it  with  unclean  hands. 

Am  I  lecturing?  I  suppose  so.  I 
don't  want  to.  I  only  want  to  put 
you  on  your  guard  against  the  avoidable 
— the  pit-falls  that  old  eyes  see  but 
which  escape  young  ones.  If  you  must 
gamble  do  it  within  your  means  and 
with  men  of  your  own  class.  Now 
that  you  are  up  for  a  good  club  there 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         157 

will  be  no  difficulty  about  that.  You 
are  fairly  sure  to  take  to  billiards  and 
bridge.  I  have  no  prejudices  against 
either,  so  long  as  you  play  them  in 
moderation.  With  betting  on  horses 
it's  different.  Such  knowledge  as  I 
have  of  the  turf  I  got  from  your  father. 
He  had  friends  who  owned  race-horses. 
He  knew  the  turf.  He  used  to  say  of 
it  that  for  every  genuine  sportsman  on 
it  there  were  ten  thousand  blackguards 
— the  scum  of  the  earth.  I  quote  from 
an  article  he  once  wrote.  It  tells 
you  what  I  cannot  out  of  my  own 
experience. 

"Racing  may  once  have  been  the 
sport  of  kings.  Nowadays,  it  seems  to 
be  the  main  occupation  of  rogues  and 
fools.  The  rogues  are  the  professional 
element,  the  people  who  make  a  living 
at  it  by  doubtful  means.  The  fools 
are  those  who  back  other  people's  horses. 
Generally  they  do  it  at  random;  often 


158       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

in  the  mistaken  belief  that  they  are  well- 
informed.  .  .  . 

"Think  how  few  people  you  meet 
who  know  anything  about  horses.  Even 
the  exceptions,  the  men  and  women  who 
hunt,  are  ignorant  of  what  goes  on  in 
a  racing  stable.  They  know  nothing 
of  training  operations  or  jockeyship. 
They  think  of  a  thoroughbred  as  a  sort 
of  equine  greyhound  with  a  satiny  skin. 
The  qualities  that  make  him  a  fast 
gallopper  are  hidden  from  them.  They 
back  this  horse  or  that  without  ever 
having  seen  it,  without  knowing  whether 
it  is  fit  to  run  or  meant  to  win.  .  .  . 

"The  so-called  racing  experts  of  the 
press  give  their  readers  a  daily  'tip./ 
The  day  after  they  have  to  devote  half 
a  column  to  explain  away  the  mistake 
they  made!  As  for  professional  tip- 
sters, they  wisely  prefer  to  take  a  shilling 
or  two  for  their  'special  information' 
rather  than  back  the  horse  it  concerns. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        159 

"And  what  of  the  owners?  For  one 
gentleman  among  them  there  are  half- 
a-dozen  German  Jews — the  kind  of 
'sportsmen'  who  if  they  were  to  start 
off  outside  a  horse  would  have  to  come 
home  inside  a  cab.  What  can  these 
financiers  know  of  racing  beyond  its 
statistics?  All  they  can  do  is  to  pay 
their  trainers  and  jockeys  extravagantly 
to  secure  them  the  big  advertisement 
of  frequent  wins. 

"Bookmakers  and  professional  back- 
ers own  horses.  So  do  other  people 
in  assumed  names.  There  are  well- 
known  racing  men,  posing  as  supporters 
of  'the  honour  of  the  turf,'  who  owe 
their  success  upon  it  to  every  form  of 
knavery,  from  blackmail  and  card- 
sharping  to  'pulling*  the  horses  they 
run.  You  have  only  to  watch  the  law 
reports  to  know  which  they  are.  The 
worst  are  always  the  plaintiffs! " 

That   ought  to  be "  enough,  dearest, 


160       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

to  dispel  any  hope  you  may  have  cher- 
ished of  winning  money  by  backing 
horses.  I  shouldn't  have  made  such  a 
fuss  of  the  question  had  you  not  shown 
such  keenness  about  last  year's  Derby. 
Racing  proper  is  the  pursuit  of  country 
gentlemen  of  leisure  and  means,  not  of  a 
young  man  who  has  his  way  to  make  in 
the  world.  I  would  dearly  love  you  to 
hunt.  Perhaps  that  will  come,  one  day. 

I  started  by  trying  to  tell  you  about 
the  pitfalls  of  London  life.  You  see  I 
have  got  into  the  country  again.  That 
is  where,  if  I  had  only  myself  to  please, 
I  would  rather  have  you.  But  I  am 
fully  conscious,  all  the  same,  that  every 
young  man  who  is  to  succeed  must  go 
to  the  capital  of  his  country  and  woo 
her  with  his  youth. 

So  blessings  on  you,  darling,  and  all,  ev- 
ery bit  of  my  love  wherever  you  may  be. 
Your 

MOTHER. 


On  a  Dark  Hour 

(Unposted) 

THERE  are  moments,  like  today, 
when  I  feel  bowed  to  the  earth. 
Nothing  that  requires  time  seems  worth 
doing,  for  I  may  never  be  able  to  finish 
it.  I  am  losing  all  interest  in  life, 
sinking  into  a  torpor.  Is  it  part  of  my 
disease? 

In  the  morning,  when  I  wake  to  a 
fresh  day  of  pain,  I  ask  myself  what  is 
the  use  of  dressing  and  going  through  the 
fixed  monotonous  routine  of  another 
day?  I  shall  soon  be  beyond  dressing, 
beyond  hiding  my  malady.  Why  not 
lie  still  and  watch  the  paper  roses  bloom- 
ing on  my  wall? 

In  a  mood  like  this,  the  most  interest- 
ing book  cannot  tempt  me  to  look  inside 

161 


162       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

its  covers.  Before  long,  all  forms  of 
reading  will  be  beyond  me ;  no  thoughts 
seem  worth  thinking  or  writing.  Imag- 
ination sickens  or  becomes  unhealthy, 
having  nothing  to  feed  on  but  itself. 

Am  I  the  mother  of  a  son?  Or  did 
I  dream  it?  And  where  is  he?  And 
why  am  I  here  alone? 


On  the  Desire  for  Distraction 

(Posted) 


VEAREST 


I  am  not  feeling  very  well. 
Consequently,  I  have  a  fit  of  the 
dumps.  The  weather  is  not  condu- 
cive to  bright  spirits.  There  is  a  grey 
sky,  but  it  is  not  so  grey  that  there 
is  not  a  hint  of  blue  in  it.  There  is 
no  sun,  but  it  wants  to  come  out.  It 
is  not  raining,  but  it  may  rain  at  any 
moment. 

Look  out  your  socks,  my  dear  boy, 
and  send  me  a  pile  to  darn.  I  hope 
there  are  great  big  holes  in  them,  so 
that  I  may  sew  my  heart  into  them  for 
you  to  stand  upon. 

Your 

MOTHER. 
163 


On  an  Appointment  to  a  Responsible  Post 

(Posted) 


M 


Y  dearest 


It  is  most  splendid  news!     Pri- 
vate secretary  to  a  prominent   M.P. ! 

I  knew  Captain  was  confident  of 

getting  you  the  a'ppointment,  in  spite 
of  his  caution  against  harbouring  false 
hopes.  The  future  now  rests  with  your- 
self. Do  all  that  is  expected  of  you. 
Do  more.  It  will  come  back  to  you  a 
hundred-fold. 

There  is  a  splendid  future  before  you. 
Remember  that  a  politician's  success 
is  often  largely  due  to  his  secretary's 
erlorts,  just  as  a  general's  depends  on 
the  brains  of  his  chief  of  staff.  You 
will  have  a  mass  of  facts  to  collect, 
prepare,  and  arrange.  You  will  be  the 
164 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       165 

Great  Man's  prompter.  Your  eyes 
must  always  be  on  the  book.  Be  ac- 
curate and  he  won't  make  mistakes. 

It  is  quite  plain  to  me  that  your 
duties  will  be  a  fine  education  for  public 
life.  All  the  information  you  will  gather 
for  your  employer  will  later  on  be  of 
incalculable  value  to  yourself,  especially 
if  you  ultimately  take  up  politics.  It 
will  be  "ghost"  work  to  begin  with; 
you  won't  shine  in  the  public  eye;  but 
don't  let  that  discourage  you.  In  po- 
litical circles  a  good  secretary  gets  his 
dues.  Ministers  and  party  managers 
are  always  on  the  look-out  for  him. 
Good  places  are  found  for  good  secre- 
taries, constituencies  often. 

And  that  reminds  me.  You  will  hear 
much  that  is  hidden  from  the  public, 
matters  that  concern  public  men  and 
the  exalted  ones  of  the  earth.  Be 
discreet.  Keep  these  things  to  yourself. 
You  will  also  meet  a  lot  of  important 


166       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

people  and  some  powerful  ones.  Be 
pleasant  wherever  you  can ;  show  respect 
wherever  it  is  due.  But  don't  try  and 
swim  with  the  "big  pitchers";  don't 
show  that  you  want  them.  A  wise 
aloofness  is  the  better  plan,  then  they 
may  want  you. 

I  am  full  of  wise  saws  and  golden 
maxims,  this  morning,  only  I  can't 
express  them  properly.  I  am  too  ex- 
alted about  your  prospects.  I  see 
your  future  all  rosy.  I  shall  dream  of 
Fame  for  you  tonight. 

Now  to  earth  with  a  sudden  drop. 

Why  haven't  you  been  down  for  a 
single  day  during  the  last  month?  The 
first  week  I  thought  you  were  ill;  the 
second,  pride  kept  me  from  asking;  the 
third,  I  said  to  myself,  "Wait."  This 
is  the  fourth. 

Why  are  you  stopping  in  town  when 
you  know  how  I  live  and  long  for  the 
all  too  short  Saturday  and  Sunday  with 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        167 

you,  darling?  You  don't  tell  me  any 
thing.  I  can  only  conjecture.  It  would 
not  fill  me  with  such  apprehension  did 
I  not  remember  that  hitherto  we  have 
both  looked  forward  so  much  to  these 
short,  snatched  times  together.  No 
mother  and  son  could  be  more  devoted 
to  each  other  than  we  are.  We  have 
always  been  such  friends.  I  have  never 
sought  a  confidence.  You  have  never 
withheld  one. 

Sitting  at  home  alone  is  weary  work, 
Son.  There  is  nothing  to  fill  my  life 
except  you. 

I  have  a  proposition  to  make.  I  half 
hoped  it  would  come  from  you,  but  as 
it  has  not  I  won't  be  backward  in  mak- 
ing it  myself. 

We  cannot  go  back  to  the  old  house. 
It  is  too  far  from  London.  But  there  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  have  a  little 
flat  of  our  own  there,  and  live  together. 
It  would  be  heaven  for  me  and  a  home 


168       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

for  you.     It  may  only  be  for  a  little 
while,  but  I  should  so  love  it,  darling. 

You  would  not  find  me  in  the  way. 
I  should  have  a  small  sitting-room,  or 
failing  that  my  bedroom,  so  that  when 
you  wanted  to  entertain  your  bachelor 
friends,  I  should  not  be  in  the  way. 
We  could  have  Cookie  (bless  her  faith- 
ful heart),  as  bonne  a  toute  faire,  and 
between  us  we'd  evolve  menus  of  such 
excellence  that  you  would  be  able  to 
give  a  little  dinner  sometimes  instead 
of  taking  your  guests  to  a  restaurant. 
Such  a  poor  form  of  hospitality  that. 
Personally  I  would  rather  eat  a  modest 
meal  in  the  comfort  of  a  friend's  house 
than  the  very  best  dinner  among  a  crowd 
of  strangers.  You  may  dine  at  a 
restaurant  with  the  same  party  for  a 
week,  but  you  would  know  them  no 
more  intimately  at  the  end  of  it  than  at 
the  beginning.  The  restaurant  dinner 
is  overestimated  because  it  is  fashion- 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        169 

able.  And  to  pay  for  what  your  guests 
have  consumed  under  their  very  eyes! 
Barbaric ! 

Sometimes,  darling,  we  would  have  a 
pretty  girl  or  two  at  our  little  parties — 
girls  like  flowers,  with  roses  and  lilies 
in  their  cheeks,  pansy  and  forget-me-not 
in  their  eyes.  It  would  remind  us  of 
the  country. 

Will  you  be  glad  to  introduce  your 
mother  to  your  friends  sometimes?  She 
will  be  very  proud  if  you  do. 

But  some  of  our  evenings  we  must 
keep  to  ourselves.  You  reading  and 
smoking,  I,  with  needle-work,  content 
to  sit  and  dream. 

Dear,  I  had  to  break  off  rather  sud- 
denly. It  is  several  hours  since  I  began 
this.  You  mustn't  take  me  seriously 
about  the  flat.  I  couldn't  live  in  Lon- 
don. All  the  more  reason  why  I  want 
you  here.  Be  sure  and  come  this  week- 


i;o       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

end,  my  dearest.  You  need  not  write 
again.  I  shall  expect  you  by  the  6.45 
on  Friday  night. 

I  will  ask  no  questions.  There  is 
probably  some  very  good  reason  why 
you  haven't  been  down  for  a  whole 
month,  which  you  will  tell  me  of  your 
own  accord. 

Good-night,  sweetheart. 

Your  loving 

MOTHER. 

P.  S. — I  doubt  whether  you  will  be  able 
to  read  these  last  few  lines.  I  have 
had  rather  a  bad  attack,  and  it  has  left 
me  shaky. 


On  the  Rending  of  the  Veil 

(Unposted) 

T  KNOW  now  what  has  kept  you  away 
*  from  me,  though  no  word  has  pas- 
sed between  us.  I  knew,  the  moment 
I  saw  you,  before  I  kissed  you.  That 
is  why  I  kissed  you  on  the  forehead 
instead  of  the  lips.  I  knew  she  was  not 
a  good  woman.  You  would  have  told 
me  everything  had  it  been  worthy  of 
being  told.  You  were  ashamed. 

My  son,  you  have  bartered  your  man- 
hood cheaply.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing 
to  trifle  with  Love,  God's  best  gift,  to 
treat  it  as  if  it  were  a  vile  thing  in 
motley. 

"Unspotted  from  the  world."  Oh, 
God !  Not  unspotted  now ! 

I  could  cry  my  heart  out.  My 
171 


172       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

womanhood,  my  motherhood,  the  dead 
ghost  of  my  maidenhood,  the  sex  within 
me,  are  in  travail. 

I  know  that  you  have  rent  the  frail 
veil  that  makes  woman  a  mystery  to  the 
boy.  There  is  knowledge  in  your  eyes. 
You  cannot  meet  mine. 

Women  weep  at  the  nuptials  of  their 
daughters  and  are  not  ashamed  of  their 
tears. 

But  the  mothers  of  sons  must  weep 
in  secret  while  a  gay  woman  laughs. 


On  a  Photograph 

(Posted) 


VEAREST 


You  left  a  photograph  behind 
you.  It  must  have  been  in  a  pocket 
and  dropped  out,  for  I  found  it  on  the 
floor.  I  return  it  in  case  you  want  it. 
I  judge  the  original  to  be  an  actress, 
since  she  has  autographed  all  of  it 
except  the  face.  Isn't  it  rather  cheap 
to  let  a  woman,  quite  a  new  friend,  I 
gather,  label  it,  "To  my  dear  Boy"? 
7  called  you  that  ! 

Still,  perhaps  she's  a  very  amusing 
person. 

Are  you  coming  down  next  week,  dear? 
Much  love. 

Your  devoted 

MOTHER. 
173 


On  an  Engagement 

(Posted) 


VEAREST 


You  cannot  think  how  delighted 
I  am  to  get  your  letter.  Although  you 
are  rather  young  to  think  of  marriage, 
still  if  you're  in  love,  and  if  she's  a  dear 
sweet  girl,  which  I  do  not  doubt,  it 
is  only  natural  that  you  should  want 
to  pledge  yourself  to  her.  For  myself, 
I  am  glad.  I  shall  have  a  daughter 
as  well  as  a  son,  and  my  arms  are  wide 
open  to  receive  her.  I  was  half  afraid 
(Heaven  knows  why,  for  I  might  have 
known  you  had  better  taste)  that  you 
had  become  infatuated  with  an  actress. 
So  you  can  imagine  how  relieved  I  feel. 
Bring  her  down  next  week,  if  her  people 
will  let  her  come.  In  the  meantime 
174 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       175 

tell  me  all  and  everything.  Her  name? 
Her  age?  Eighteen  or  nineteen,  I  sup- 
pose. I  was  eighteen  when  I  first  loved 
your  father,  so  I  know  how  really  and 
truly  a  girl  of  that  age  can  love.  It's 
the  sweetest,  best,  and  freshest  age  to 
love — the  bud  and  flower  of  life.  Is  she 
tall — dark  or  fair?  Who  are  her  people? 
(A  typical  mother's  question!  As  if 
you  care  a  fig  about  her  people!)  Do 
you  think  she  will  like  me?  Tell  her 
I  want  to  loveherl 

All  my  love,  dear  darling. 

Your  excited,  delighted 

MOTHER. 


On  a  Disappointment 

(Posted) 

IV /IY  very  dear  son: 
*  *  *  I  am  so  bewildered,  dazed,  and 
shocked  that  I  have  been  sitting  and 
staring  at  this  blank  sheet  of  paper 
for  hours.  Gradually,  out  of  the  chaos, 
my  thoughts  began  to  sort  themselves, 
and  have  brought  me  to  a  conclusion 
that  makes  my  son  a  stranger  to  me. 
Even  now  I  keep  on  deluding  myself 
that  what  you  tell  me  cannot  be  true. 

When  you  came  down  last  week,  there 
was  a  barrier  between  us — of  shame  on 
your  part,  grief  for  your  shame  on  mine. 
It  explained  why  you  had  avoided  me 
of  late.  When  I  returned  the  photo- 
graph I  knew  the  type  of  woman  it 

represented  and  that  she  had  detained 
176 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       177 

you.  Then,  when  you  wrote  saying 
you  were  engaged,  I  felt  I  must  have 
been  mistaken.  Otherwise  you  could 
not,  as  I  believed,  have  offered  yourself 
to  a  sweet  girl.  And  now  I  have  your 
letter  in  which  you  tell  me  she  is  not 
exactly  a  young  girl  but  the  woman 
whose  photograph  I  have  already  seen. 

I  did  not  want  to  write  or  do  any- 
thing I  might  afterwards  regret.  I  did 
not  want  to  lose  you  just  when  it  is 
vital  for  your  welfare  that  I  should  keep 

you.  I  sent  for  Captain .  I  gave 

him  your  letter  to  read.  I  said  not  one 
word  of  my  private  feelings,  only  this: 

"  You  are  a  man  of  the  world.  Advise 
me.  Do  you  know  anything  of  this 
woman?  Ought  my  son  to  marry  her?  " 

When  he  gave  me  back  your  letter 
he  briefly  answered  that  he  would  go  up 
to  town  at  once  and  see  you.  He  would 
tell  me  nothing  save  that  he  knew  of  her, 
that  all  men  knew  of  her.  He  called 


178       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

you  a  fool.  He  called  you  disloyal 
to  me. 

I  had  only  one  more  question  to  ask, 
because  of  an  unspeakable  fear. 

"Suppose  there  is  a  reason  why  he 
should  feel  it  to  be  his  duty  to  marry 
her?" 

"There  could  be  no  reason  why  any 
man  should  owe  such  a  woman  a  duty 
of  any  sort,"  he  answered.  "Don't 
you  understand  what  she  is?" 

I  bowed  my  head  in  shame. 

He  promised  to  return  and  tell  me 
what  you  had  said.  He  has  just  done  so. 
It  appears  that  you  know  everything 
about  her  that  there  is  to  know,  and  that 
you  will  not  listen  to  anyone's  advice. 

What  can  I  say  to  you,  I,  your 
mother,  who  have  built  up  the  house  of 
your  life  with  prayer  and  fasting?  Aye, 
even  with  fasting!  Is  this  woman  to 
defile  it?  You  too,  who  are  the  seed  of 
the  most  hallowed  wedded  love. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        179 

Now  you  need  your  father.  The  man 
you  have  called  a  friend,  who  has  been 
instrumental  in  starting  you  on  your 
career,  you  regard  as  an  old  meddler. 
You  told  him  so.  You  deem  me  pre- 
judiced. And  yet  I,  your  mother,  who 
have  been  shielded  from  all  that  is  un- 
lovely in  life,  know  that  you  are  in  the 
grip  of  the  mental  malady  which  is 
responsible  for  all  the  sin,  shame,  sor- 
row, even  the  origin  of  crime,  with  which 
the  world  is  groaning — passion  apart 
from  love. 

One  day,  as  surely  as  you  will  re- 
member these  words  of  mine  with 
gratitude  or  regret,  you  will  meet  and 
love  a  good  woman.  This  is  absolutely 
inevitable.  Every  man  loves  one  good 
woman  in  his  life.  Then,  if  you  wor- 
ship at  this  unholy  shrine,  what  will  you 
be  able  to  offer  at  the  altar  of  real  love 
when  it  comes  to  you?  Your  hands  will 
be  empty.  Either  a  separation  that  is 


i8o       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

worse  than  the  bitterness  of  death,  since 
honour  and  not  death  dictates  it;  or, 
out  of  the  wealth  of  her  love,  the  sur- 
render to  a  call  that  will  fill  her  with 
regret,  possibly  with  shame. 

It  is  grievous  to  think  that  these 
women,  these  others,  steal  the  youth  and 
the  best  of  a  man,  and  that  the  sweet 
woman  who  keeps  her  life  as  a  tended 
garden  should  have  to  water  it  with  her 
tears  because  of  follies  committed  by 
another.  It  is  always  the  sinless  woman 
who  pays,  over  and  over  again. 

If  this  woman  cared  for  you  at  all  in 
any  worthy  sense  she  would  know  it  to 
be  her  duty  to  send  you  away  from  her. 

My  darling  child,  I  could  not  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  oppose  your  wishes 
were  it  not  for  a  mother's  awful  pre- 
science which  satisfies  her  that  the  step 
you  contemplate  taking  will  be  dis- 
astrous. You  are  dazed  by  the  flash- 
light of  a  sordid  romance;  but  why,  oh 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         181 

why,  do  you  seek  to  sanctify  a  gross 
thing  by  the  sacrament  of  marriage,  an 
institution  that  must  have  its  roots  in 
a  reverence  for  love  if  it  is  to  last? 

For  love  of  me,  dearest,  put  an  end  to 
this  before  it  is  too  late.  I  pray  to  you, 
darling,  to  be  guided  by  my  love  that 
has  never  failed  you.  Can  you  refuse 
me  when  I  beseech  you  to  do  this  one 
thing  for  me?  Is  not  your  filial  love 
great  enough  to  make  the  sacrifice? 

Darling,  could  I  pray  on  my  knees 
night  and  morning  for  your  happiness  if 
I  had  a  thought  of  self  in  my  heart? 
I  have  never  thought  of  myself  since  I 
had  you.  How  can  I  strengthen  the 
appeal  in  written  words  so  that  you  may 
know  it  as  the  supplication  of  my  soul? 
If  you  knew  that  they  were  actually 
written  in  my  life's  blood  would  you 
turn  to  me  now? 

Your 

MOTHER. 


On  an  Interview 

(Unposted) 

A  S  you  would  not  listen  to  my 
**  importunities,  I  gave  heed  to 
yours.  I  went  as  you  desired  to  see  her, 
yesterday,  having  promised  that  if  I 
could  be  sure  she  loved  you  I  would 
withdraw  my  opposition.  I  felt  safe, 
because,  whatever  her  artifices,  she 
could  not  hide  her  real  feelings  from 
me.  I  was  even  gerferous  enough  not 
to  take  her  unawares,  as  I  might  have 
done.  I  made  an  appointment.  She 
should  have  time  to  collect  her  weapons, 
to  appear  to  the  best  advantage,  if  she 
wished  to  do  so. 

And  because,  sick  woman  as  I  am, 
I  am  still  very  woman,  I  dressed  with 
care.     I  wore  black,  my  simplest  frock, 
182 


THE  LITTLE  MOTHER       183 

and  my  black  hat  with  its  soft  frill 
of  lace  and  subduing  band  of  velvet. 
I  am  glad  I  did  not  look  old  and  frump- 
ish. I  was  glad  my  hair  was  still  bright, 
and  that  honourable  men  had  found  me 
good  to  look  upon.  She  should  not 
regard  me  as  a  specimen  of  the  cen- 
sorious mother  that  her  type  scorns. 

I  called  at  her  house.  I  saw  her — a 
pretty  woman,  outwardly  artificial,  with 
the  sly  gift  of  charm.  She  was  so 
pretty  that  my  first  feeling  was  one  of 
genuine  sorrow  that  she  had  misused  her 
life.  She  need  not  have  stooped  to  that. 
Men  would  have  stooped  to  her.  She 
had  been  burning  a  joss-stick  in  the 
room.  That  and  the  fatigue  of  the 
journey  made  me  feel  faint. 

We  shook  hands.  She  sat  figuratively 
speaking  with  couched  lance.  I  could 
not  mistake  her  attitude. 

A  woman's  way  with  another  woman 
is  either  to  skim  the  surface  or  go 


1 84       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

straight  to  the  heart  of  things.  I  went 
straight  to  the  heart  of  things.  I  had 
neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to 
avoid  the  direct  issue. 

"Do  you  love  my  son?"  I  asked. 

On  her  reply  hung  worlds. 

If  she  loved  you  I  must  have  known 
it  then.  If  her  emotions  had  been  too 
strong  for  words  I  should  have  seen 
it  in  the  glowing  devotion  in  her  eyes, 
and  the  rose-patch  of  a  sudden  blush. 
She  could  not  have  hidden  them.  She 
looked  at  me,  quite  calmly  and  steadily. 
No  woman,  be  she  nineteen  or  forty- 
nine,  who  cared  for  a  man,  could  have 
looked  at  that  man's  mother  as  she 
looked  at  me.  If  she  had  cared,  how- 
ever undemonstrative  either  or  both  of 
us  might  have  been,  however  divergent 
in  other  ways,  our  hearts  must  have 
been  responsive  at  that  moment. 

She  answered  with  a  light  polite 
laugh : 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         185 

"Love's  rather  a  strong  word,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Tell  me  quite  frankly  why  you  wish 
to  marry  him. " 

"I  like  him.  He's  such  a  dear  boy. 
And  it's  time  I  settled  down." 

"It  is  early  for  him  to  settle  down," 
I  said.  "He  is  barely  twenty-four." 

"I'm  thirty,"  was  her  candid  re- 
joinder. "Boys  fall  hopelessly  in  love 

with  women  of  my  age.  is  awfully 

devoted.  That  sort  of  thing  has  its 
charm.  It  partly  makes  up  for  his 
want  of  money.  Still,  he  may  'get 
there. '  I'm  ambitious. " 

"I,  too,  have  been  ambitious  for  my 
son." 

I  was  about  to  try  and  give  her  some 
idea  of  how  I  loved  you,  of  all  that  you 
meant  to  me,  when  I  saw  a  preoccupied 
look  in  her  face.  She  was  not  listening. 
My  feelings  did  not  interest  her.  So 
I  got  up  to  go. 


1 86       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

"Well.  Have  we  your  blessing?" 
she  asked  with  a  careless  smile. 

I  told  her  that  I  did  not  desire  the 
marriage.  She  was  a  little  rude,  and 
her  last  words  were  in  the  nature  of  a 
taunt. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  succeed  in  put- 
ting him  off  me. " 

It  was  a  little  crude;  the  phrase  had 
more  than  a  touch  of  vulgarity  in  it. 
But  I  did  not  retort. 

"I'm  only  sorry  that — I  should  have 
lived  to  see  this,"  I  rejoined.  "It's  so 
sordid." 

"Meaning  me?" 

"Your  life — and  the  hold  you  are 
exercising  over  my  son." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  think  a  mother  does  not 
know?" 

At  that  she  laughed  lightly,  as  if  to 
show  that  any  conclusion  of  mine  did 
not  matter. 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME        187 

"  If  you  think  I  bolstered  him  up  with 
the  usual  silly  reason  why  he  ought  to 
marry  me,  you're  mistaken.  I'm  not 
very  strong  on  the  maternal  instincts." 

I  felt  scorched.  I  endured  the  same 
nauseating  sensation  as  one  gets  when 
reading  an  ugly  situation  in  a  real- 
istic novel.  Because  a  thing  is  con- 
scientiously true  to  life  its  brutality 
is  no  excuse  for  giving  expression  to 
it. 

I  left  her. 

It  had  been  my  intention  to  come 
straight  on  to  you.  But  I  was  too  worn 
and  spent.  It  was  one  of  my  bad  days. 
On  the  way  back  my  physical  pain  be- 
came so  great  that  it  actually  dulled  my 
mental  anguish.  When  I  got  home  I 
was  just  able  to  crawl  to  my  bed  while 

Cookie  went  for  Dr.  .  He  comes 

more  often  now  to  give  me  the  morphia 
I  dare  not  inject  at  discretion.  If  I 
did  I  should  abuse  it  instead  of  enduring 


1 88       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

the  pain — setting  my  lips  and  burying 
my  face  in  the  smothering  pillow. 

The  narcotic  flowed  through  my  veins, 
soothed  my  throbbing  agony,  whispered 
to  my  dulled  consciousness : 

"What  does  it  matter?  Nothing 
matters.  Sleep  is  delicious.  Forget!" 


On  the  Last  Gift 

(Posted) 

/\  l\  Y  beloved  Son : 

You  know  that  part  of  the  Bible 
where  Jesus  tells  His  disciples  He  is 
going  to  die?  When  I  was  a  little  girl 
I  used  to  wonder  why  he  told  them. 
I  thought  it  would  have  been  so  much 
grander  had  He,  to  save  the  world,  died 
without  announcing  His  earthly  end; 
that  that  would  have  shown  greater 
self -sacrifice.  But  in  time  I  understood 
that  I  was  wrong.  However  desirous 
Jesus  may  have  been  to  make  His  great 
gift  to  the  world  silently,  He  was  de- 
barred from  doing  so.  The  world  needed 
telling  for  its  own  salvation.  Jesus 
was  the  embodiment  of  self-sacrifice, 
but  in  the  matter  of  His  death  He  saw 
189 


190       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

the  unwisdom  of  following  the  dictates 
of  His  great  heart. 

So,  if  immeasurably  less  so,  is  it  with 
me.  My  heart  prompts  me  to  keep 
from  you  what  I  have  to  tell.  The 
moment  has  come  for  you  to  know  it, 
perhaps  for  your  own  good. 

I  have  prayed  to  you  with  tears.  I 
have  appealed  to  you  with  my  whole 
heart.  I  have  implored  you,  in  your 
dead  father's  name,  to  listen  to  my 
wishes.  And  in  vain.  Now,  as  a  last 
resource,  I  am  compelled  to  let  you 
know  of  the  obligation  you  are  under 
to  me,  so  that  you  cannot  in  honour 
refuse  the  only  serious  request  I  have 
ever  made  you,  the  sole  debt  I  have 
ever  asked  you  to  discharge. 

Dear  one,  I  have  made  my  body  a 
stepping-stone  for  your  advancement 
in  life.  I  went  without  necessities  that 
you  might  have  success.  True,  I  made 
light  of  what  I  did  because  my  heart  was 


WHO  SITS  AT  HOME         191 

light.  In  winter,  when,  as  you  grew, 
your  clothes  cost  more,  and  mine  wore 
out,  I  did  with  less  and  defied  the  cold. 
I  was  often  hungry.  I  was  so  proud  of 
my  economies.  They  had  to  be  endured 
if  you  were  to  have  your  education.  I 
thought  of  the  man  in  the  making. 

Then  I  was  ill  and  I  did  without  the 
doctor.  I  knew  mine  was  not  a  tri- 
fling complaint  or  I  would  have  endeav- 
oured to  remedy  it.  When  at  last  I 
was  driven  to  the  specialist  I  had  to 
choose  between  spending  money  on  my- 
self or  you.  Had  I  decided  selfishly 
you  would  have  had  to  leave  college  in 
your  first  term.  The  specialist  gave 
me  three  years  if  I  did  not  undergo  the 
operation  he  advised.  That  leaves  me 
about  six  months  now. 

I  am  dying,  darling. 

I  would  give  my  soul  not  to  have  had 
to  tell  you  this  even  now.  You  would 
not  have  stayed  up  for  your  degree,  your 


192       THE  LITTLE  MOTHER 

honours,  your  blue,  had  I  done  so. 
You  would  have  been  unselfish,  and 
come  down.  I  spared  you  that,  spare 
me  this. 

My  last  request  is  that  you  give  me 
your  pledge  never  to  see  this  woman 
again.  Believe  me  I  feel  it  a  grievous 
thing  to  have  to  urge  the  self-denial  I 
practiced  out  of  love  in  order  to  coerce 
you. 

Oh,  my  most  precious  son,  come  to 
me!  Come  and  assure  me  that  I  have 
you  still;  that  you  will  in  the  fulness  of 
time  choose  a  good  woman,  because  first 
and  foremost,  goodness  is  the  chief  thing 
that  matters. 

And  yet  my  heart  will  be  sore  if  your 
promise  is  only  given  because  a  sense 
of  honour  demands  the  liquidation  of 
what  you  feel  to  be  a  debt. 

Even  as  I  have  loved  you,  my  darling 
• — out  of  your  love!  Out  of  your  love! 


None  Dimhtis 

ORD,  now  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
•"^  depart  in  peace:  according  to  thy 
word. 

For  mine  eyes  have  seen:  thy  sal- 
vation, 

Which    thou    hast    prepared:  before 
the  face  of  all  people; 

To  be  a  light  to  lighten  the  Gentiles: 
and  to  be  the  glory  of  thy  people  Israel. 

Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the 
Son,  and  to  the  Holy  Ghost ; 

As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and 
ever  shall  be:  world  without  end. 

AMEN. 


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